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BY THE EDITOR 



In preparing a new edition of "Papers on Literature 
and Art " for the press, no essential change in the body of 
the work has been deemed requisite. This was the last 
volume my sister sent forth into the world. It was issued 
from the press just previous to her sailing for Europe on 
that eventful journey which ended only on the shores of 
that better land, "the undiscovered country from whose 
bourn no traveller returns." 

It contained some of Margaret's best thoughts on Art 
and Literature, and has been, perhaps, the most popular of 
the volumes she published. For some years it has been 
out of print, and is now again made accessible to the gen- 
eral reader, together with the other volumes from her pen 
which are now for the first time published in a uniform 
series, accompanied by her suggestive memoirs. 

To increase the value of this work I have added a third 

part, containing her metrical translation of Goethe's drama, 

Tasso. This latter has never before been published, though 

(3) 



1 PREFACE. 

she had prepared it for publication many years previous to 
her departure from this life. It contains numerous pas- 
sages of singular beauty. 

This addition of material made requisite some change 
in the title of the work ; and it now appears under the 
designation of " Art, Literature, and the Drama." 

In the preface to this volume Margaret expressed a de- 
sire and intention to publish, at some future period, further 
literary criticisms, together with some original essays. 
That purpose she did not remain on earth to execute ; but, 
in the new volume, " Life Within and Life Without," issued 
from the press simultaneously with this, and prepared by 
me from my sister's unpublished manuscripts, the reader 
will find an endeavor to carry out her original intention. 

Arthur B. Fuller. 

Watertown, Mass., 1859 



PREFACE. 



In the original plan for publishing a selection from my 
essays in different kinds which have appeared in periodicals, 
I had aimed at more completeness of arrangement than has 
been attained in these two volumes. Selections had been 
made from essays on English literature, on Continental and 
American literature, and on Art. I had wished, beside, for 
a department in which to insert sketches of a miscellaneous 
character, in prose and verse. 

It was proposed, in the critical pieces, to retain the extracts 
with which they were originally adorned, as this would give 
them far more harmony and interest for the general reader. 

The translation, however, of the matter from a more 
crowded page to its present form has made such a differ- 
ence, that I have been obliged to drop most of the extracts 
from several of the pieces. Moreover, in approaching the 
end of the first number, I found myself obliged to omii 
more than half the essays I had proposed on the subject of 
English literature, the greater part of those on Art, and 
those on Continental literature and of a miscellaneous 
kind entirely. I find, indeed, that the matter which I had 

1* (5) 



(j PREFACE. 

supposed could be comprised in two of these numbers would 
611 six or eight. 

Had I been earlier aware of this, I should have made a 
different selection, and one which would do more justice to 
the range and variety of subjects which have been before 
my mind during the ten years that, in the intervals allowed 
me by other engagements, I have written for the public. 

To those of my friends, who have often expressed a wish 
that I " could find time to write," it will be a satisfaction to 
know that, though the last twenty months is the first period 
in my life when it has been permitted me to make my pen 
my chief means of expressing my thoughts, yet I have 
written enough, if what is afloat, and what lies hid in man- 
uscript, were put together, to make a little library, quite 
large enough to exhaust the patience of the collector, if not 
of the reader. Should I do no more, I have at least sent 
my share of paper missives through the world. 

The present selection contains some of my earliest and 
some of my latest expressions. I have not put dates to any 
of the pieces, though, in the earlier, I see much crudity, 
which I seem to have outgrown now, just as I hope I shall 
think ten years hence of what I write to-day. But I find 
an identity in the main views and ideas, a substantial har- 
mony among these pieces, and I think those who have 
been interested in my mind at all, will take some pleasure 
in reading the youngest and crudest of these pieces, and 
will readily disown for me what I would myself disown. 

Should these volumes meet with a kind reception, a more 



PREFACE. i 

complete selection from my miscellanies will be offered to 
the public in due time. Should these not seem to be objects 
of interest I shall take the hint, and consign the rest to the 
peaceful seclusion of the garret. 

I regret omitting some pieces explanatory of foreign 
authors, that would have more interest now than when 
those authors become, as I hope they will, familiar 
friends to the youth of my country. It has been one 
great object of my life to introduce here the works of 
those great geniuses, the flower and fruit of a higher state 
of development, which might give the young who are soon 
to constitute the state, a higher standard in thought and ac- 
tion than would be demanded of them by their own time. 
I have hoped that, by being thus raised above their native 
sphere, they would become its instructors and the faithful 
stewards of its best riches, not its tools or slaves. I feel 
with satisfaction that I have done a good deal to extend the 
influence of the great minds of Germany and Italy among 
my compatriots. Of our English contemporaries, as yet but 
partially known here, I have written notices of Milnes, 
Landor, and Julius Hare, which I regret being obliged to 
omit, as these writers are yet but little known. Bailey and 
Tennyson have now a fair chance of circulation, therefore 
my notices may sleep with the occasion that gave them 
birth. Tennyson, especially, needs no usher. He has only 
to be heard to command the audience of that " melodioua 
thunder." 

Of the essays in the second volume, that on American lit 



8 PREFACE. 

erature is the only one, which has not, before, appeared in 
print. It is a very imperfect sketch ; the theme was great 
and difficult, the time to be spared for its consideration was 
brief. It is, however, written with sincere and earnest feel 
ings, and from a mind that cares for nothing but what is 
permanent and essential. It should, then, have some merit, 
if only in the power of suggestion. A year or two hence, I 
hope to have more to say upon this topic, or the interests 
it represents, and to speak with more ripeness both as to the 
matter and the form. 

M. F. 



CONTENTS. 



PART I. 

Page 

A Shout Essay on Critics ( 3 

A Dialogue 21 

The Two Herberts 25 

The Prose "Works of Milton 45 

—The Life of Sir James Mackintosh 53' 

—Modern British Poets. . 68 

The Modern Drama 110 

Dialogue, containing sundry Glosses on Poetic Texts. . . . 161 ' 

PART II. 

Poets of the People 177 

Miss Barrett's Poems 198- 

Browning's Poems 207" 

Lives of the great Composers — Haydn, Mozart, Handel, Bach, 

Beethoyen 223 ' 

A Record of Impressions produced by the Exhibition of Mr. 

Allston's Pictures, in the Summer of 1839 284' 

— American Literature; its Position in the Present Time and 

Prospects for the Future 298 

Swedenborgianism 336 

Methodism at the Fountain 342 

PART I'll. 

A Rhythmical Translation of Gcethe'b Tasso 355 

(9) 



PART I. 

ART AND LITERATURE, 



au 



PAPERS ON LITERATURE AND ART, 



A SHORT ESSAY ON CRITICS. 

An essay on Criticism were a serious matter ; for, though this 
age be emphatically critical, the writer would still find it neces- 
sary to investigate the laws of criticism as a science, to settle its 
conditions as an art. Essays, entitled critical, are epistles ad- 
dressed to the public, through which the mind of the recluse re- 
lieves itself of its impressions. Of these the only law is, 
" Speak the best word that is in thee." Or they are regular ar- 
ticles got up to order by the literary hack writer, for the literary 
mart, and the only law is to make them plausible. There is not 
yet deliberate recognition of a standard of criticism, though we 
hope the always strengthening league of the republic of letters 
must ere long settle laws on which its Amphictyonic council may 
act. Meanwhile let us not venture to write on criticism, but, by 
classifying the critics, imply our hopes and thereby our thoughts. 

First, there are the subjective class, (to make use of a conve- 
nient term, introduced by our German benefactors.) These are 
persons to whom writing is no sacred, no reverend employment. 
They are not driven to consider, not forced upon investigation by 
the fact, that they are deliberately giving their thoughts an inde- 
pendent existence, and that it may live to others when dead to 
them. They know no agonies of conscientious research, no tim- 
idities of self-respect. They see no ideal beyond the present 
hour, which makes its mood an uncertain tenure. How things 
2 ( 13 ) 



14 PAPERS ON LITERATURE AND ART. 

affect them now they know ; let the future, let the whole take 
care of itself. They state their impressions as they rise, of 
other men's spoken, written, or acted thoughts. They never 
dream of going out of themselves to seek the motive, to trace the 
law of another nature. They never dream that there are statures 
which cannot be measured from their point of view. They love, 
they like, or they hate ; the book is detestable, immoral, absurd, 
or admirable, noble, of a most approved scope ; — these statements 
they make with authority, as those who bear the evangel of pure 
taste and accurate judgment, and need be tried before no human 
synod. To them it seems that their present position commands 
the universe. 

Thus the essays on the works of others, which are called criti- 
cisms, are often, in fact, mere records of impressions. To judge 
of their value you must know where the man was brought up, 
under what influences, — his nation, his church, his family even. 
He himself has never attempted to estimate the value of these 
circumstances, and find a law or raise a standard above all cir- 
cumstances, permanent against all influence. He is content to 
be the creature of his place, and to represent it by his spoken 
and written word. He takes the same ground with a savage, 
who does not hesitate to say of the product of a civilization on 
which he could not stand, " It is bad," or " It is good." 

The value of such comments is merely reflex. They charac- 
terize the critic. They give an idea of certain influences on a 
certain act of men in a certain time or place. Their absolute, 
essential value is nothing. The long review, the eloquent arti- 
cle by the man of the nineteenth century, are of no value by 
themselves considered, but only as samples of their kind. The 
writers were content to tell what they felt, to praise or to de- 
nounce without needing to convince us or themselves. They 
sought not the divine truths of philosophy, and she proffers them 
not if unsought. 



A SHORT ESSAY ON CRITICS. 15 

Then there are the apprehensive. These can go out of them- 
selves and enter fully into a foreign existence. They breathe its 
life ; they live in its law ; they tell what it meant, and why it so 
expressed its meaning. They reproduce the work of which they 
speak, and make it better known to us in so far as two statement? 
are better than one. There are beautiful specimens in this kind 
They are pleasing to us as bearing witness of the genial sympa 
thies of nature. They have the ready grace of love with some- 
what of the dignity of disinterested friendship. They some- 
times give more pleasure than the original production of which 
they treat, as melodies will sometimes ring sweetlier in the echo. 
Besides there is a peculiar pleasure in a true response ; it is the 
assurance of equipoise in the universe. These, if not true crit- 
ics, come nearer the standard than the subjective class, and th' 
value of their work is ideal as well as historical. 

Then there are the comprehensive, who must also be appre- 
hensive. They enter into the nature of another being and judge 
his work by its own law. But having done so, having ascer- 
tained his design and the degree of his success in fulfilling it, ^\ 
thus measuring his judgment, his energy, and skill, they do also 
know how to put that aim in its place, and how to estimate its re- 
lations. And this the critic can only do who perceives the anal- 
ogies of the universe, and how they are regulated by an absolute, 
invariable principle. He can see how far that work expresses 
this principle, as well as how far it is excellent in its details. 
Sustained by a principle, such as can be girt within no rule, no 
formula, he can walk around the work, he can stand above it, he 
can uplift it, and try its weight. Finally, he is worthy to 
judge it. 

Critics are poets cut down, says some one by way of jeer ; but, 
in truth, they are men with the poetical temperament to appre- 
hend, with the philosophical tendency to investigate. The maker 
is divine ;• the critic sees this divine, but brings it down to hu- 



16 PAPERS ON LITERATURE AND ART. 

manity by the analytic process. The critic is the historian who 
records the order of creation. In vain for the maker, who knows 
without learning it, but not in vain for the mind of his race. 

The critic is beneath the maker, but is his needed friend. 
What tongue could speak but to an intelligent ear, and every 
noble work demands its critic. The richer the work, the more 
severe should be its critic ; the larger its scope, the more com- 
prehensive must be his power of scrutiny. The critic is not a 
base caviller, but the younger brother of genius. Next to in- 
vention is the power of interpreting invention ; next to beauty 
the power of appreciating beauty. 

And of making others appreciate it ; for the universe is a 
scale of infinite gradation, and, below the very highest, every 
step is explanation down to the lowest. Religion, in the two 
modulations of poetry and music, descends through an infinity 
of waves to the lowest abysses of human nature. Nature is the 
literature and art of the divine mind ; human literature and art 
the criticism on that ; and they, too, find their criticism within 
their own sphere. 

The critic, then, should be not merely a poet, not merely a 
philosopher, not merely an observer, but tempered of all three. 
If he criticise the poem, he must want nothing of what constitutes 
the poet, except the power of creating forms and speaking in 
music. He must have as good an eye and as fine a sense ; but 
if he had as fine an organ for expression also, he would make 
the poem instead of judging it. He must be inspired by the phi- 
losopher's spirit of inquiry and need of generalization, but he 
must not be constrained by the hard cemented masonry of method 
to which philosophers are prone. And he must have the organic 
acuteness of the observer, with a love of ideal perfection, which 
forbids him to be content with mere beauty of details in the 
work or the comment upon the work. 

There are persons who maintain, that there is no legitimate 



A SHORT ESSAY ON CRITICS. 17 

criticism, except the reproductive; that we have only to say 
what the work is or is to us, never what it is not. But the mo- 
ment we look for a principle, we feel the need of a criterion, of 
a standard ; and then we say what the work is not, as well as 
what it is ; and this is as healthy though not as grateful and 
gracious an operation of the mind as the other. We do not seek 
to degrade but to classify an object by stating what it is not. We 
detach the part from the whole, lest it stand between us and the 
whole. When we have ascertained in what degree it manifests 
the whole, we may safely restore it to its place, and love or ad- 
mire it there ever after. 

The use of criticism, in periodical writing is to sift, not to 
stamp a work. Yet should they not be " sieves and drainers for 
the use of luxurious readers," but for the use of earnest in- 
quirers, giving voice and being to their objections, as well as 
stimulus to their sympathies. But the critic must not be an in- 
fallible adviser to his reader. He must not tell him what books 
are not worth reading, or what must be thought of them when 
read, but what he read in them. Wo to that coterie where some 
critic sits despotic, intrenched behind the infallible " We." Wo 
to that oracle who has infused such soft sleepiness, such a gentle 
dulness into his atmosphere, that when he opes his lips no dog 
will bark, It is this attempt at dictatorship in the reviewers, and 
tne indolent acquiescence of their readers, that has brought them 
into disrepute. With such fairness did they make out their 
statements, with such dignity did they utter their verdicts, that 
the poor reader grew all too submissive. He learned his lesson 
with such docility, that the greater part of what will be said at 
any public or private meeting can be foretold by any one who has 
read the leading periodical works for twenty years back. Schol- 
ars sneer at and would fain dispense with them altogether ; and 
the public, grown lazy and helpless by this constant use of props 
and stays, can now scarce brace itself even to get through a 
2* 



18 PAPERS ON LITERATURE AND ART. 

magazine article, but reads in the daily paper laid beside the 
breakfast plate a short notice of the last number of the long es- 
tablished and popular review, and thereupon passes its judgment 
and is content. 

Then the partisan spirit of many of these journals has made it 
unsafe to rely upon them as guide-books and expurgatory indexes. 
They could not be content merely to stimulate and suggest 
thought, they have at last become powerless to supersede it. 

From these causes and causes like these, the journals have lost 
much of their influence. There is a languid feeling about them, 
an inclination to suspect the justice of their verdicts, the value 
of their criticisms. But their golden age cannot be quite past. 
They afford too convenient a vehicle for the transmission of 
knowledge ; they are too natural a feature of our time to have 
done all their work yet. Surely they may be redeemed from 
their abuses, they may be turned to their true uses. But how ? 

It were easy to say what they should not do. They should 
not have an object to carry or a cause to advocate, which obliges 
them either to reject all writings which wear the distinctive 
traits of individual life, or to file away what does not suit them, 
till the essay, made true to their design, is made false to the 
mind of the writer. An external consistency is thus produced, 
at the expense of all salient thought, all genuine emotion of life, 
in short, and all living influence. Their purpose may be of va- 
lue, but by such means was no valuable purpose ever furthered 
long. There are those, who have with the best intention pursued 
this system of trimming and adaptation, and thought it well 
and best to 

" Deceive their country for their country's good." 

But their country cannot long be so governed. It misses the 
pure, the full tone of truth ; it perceives that the voice is modu- 
lated to coax, to persuade, and it turns from the judicious man ot 



A SHORT ESSAY ON CRITICS. 19 

the world, calculating the effect to be produced by each of his 
smooth sentences, to some earnest voice which is uttering thoughts, 
crude, rash, ill-arranged it may be, but true to one human breast, 
and uttered in full faith, that the God of Truth will guide them 
aright. 

And here, it seems to me, has been the greatest mistake in the 
conduct of these journals. A smooth monotony has been at- 
tained, an uniformity of tone, so that from the title of a journal 
you can infer the tenor of all its chapters. But nature is ever 
various, ever new, and so should be her daughters, art and lite- 
rature. We do not want merely a polite response to what we 
thought before, but by the freshness of thought in other minds to 
have new thought awakened in our own. We do not want stores 
of information only, but to be roused to digest these into knowl- 
edge. Able and experienced men write for us, and we would 
know what they think, as they think it not for us but for them- 
selves. We would live with them, rather than be taught by 
them how to live ; we would catch the contagion of their mental 
activity, rather than have them direct us how to regulate our 
own. In books, in reviews, in the senate, in the pulpit, we wish 
to meet thinking men, not schoolmasters or pleaders. We wish 
that they should do full justice to their own view, but also that 
they should be frank with us, and, if now our superiors, treat us 
as if we might some time rise to be their equals. It is this true 
manliness, this firmness in his own position, and this power of ap- 
preciating the position of others, that alone can make the critic 
our companion and friend. We would converse with him, se- 
cure that he will tell us all his thought, and speak as man to 
man. But if he adapts his work to us, if he stifles what is dis- 
tinctively his, if he shows himself either arrogant or mean, or, 
above all, if he wants faith in the healthy action of free thought, 
and the safety of pure motive, we will not talk with him, for we 
cannot confide in him. We will go to the critic who trusts Genius 



20 PAPERS ON LITERATURE AND ART. 

and trusts us, who knows that all good writing must be sponta. 
neous, and who will write out the bill of fare for the public as he 
read it for himself, — 

" Forgetting vulgar rules, with spirit free 
To judge each author by his own intent, 
Nor think one standard for all minds is meant." 

Such an one will not disturb us with personalities, with sectarian 
prejudices, or an undue vehemence in favour of petty plans or 
temporary objects. Neither will he disgust us by smooth obse- 
quious flatteries and an inexpressive, lifeless gentleness. He 
will be free and make free from the mechanical and distorting 
influences we hear complained of on every side. He will teach 
us to love wisely what we before loved well, for he knows the 
difference between censoriousness and discernment, infatuation 
and reverence ; and while delighting in the genial melodies of 
Pan, can perceive, should Apollo bring his lyre into audience, 
that there may be strains more divine than those of his native 
groves. 



A DIALOGUE. 



POET. CRITIC. 

Poet. Approach me not, man of cold, steadfast eye and com. 
pressed lips. At thy coming nature shrouds herself in dull 
mist ; fain would she hide her sighs and smiles, her buds and 
fruits even in a veil of snow. For thy unkindly breath, as it 
pierces her mystery, destroys its creative power. The birds 
draw back into their nests, the sunset hues into their clouds, 
when vou are seen in the distance with your tablets all ready to 
write them into prose. 

Critic. O my brother, my benefactor, do not thus repel me. 
Interpret me rather to our common mother ; let her not avert her 
eyes from a younger child. I know I can never be dear to her 
as thou art, yet I am her child, nor would the fated revolutions 
of existence be fulfilled without my aid. 

Poet. How meanest thou ? What have thy measurements, 
thy artificial divisions and classifications, to do with the natural 
revolutions ? In all real growths there is a " give and take" of 
unerring accuracy ; in all the acts of thy life there is falsity, for 
all are negative. Why do you not receive and produce in your 
kind, like the sunbeam and the rose ? Then new light would be 
brought out, were it but the life of a weed, to bear witness to the 
healthful beatings of the divine heart. But this perpetual ana- 
lysis, comparison, and classification, never add one atom to the 
sum of existence. 

Critic. I understand you. 

J 21) 



22 PAPERS ON LITERATURE AND ART. 

Poet. Yes, that is always the way. You understand me, 
who never have the arrogance to pretend that I understand my- 
self. 

Critic. Why should you ? — that is my province. I am the 
rock which gives you back the echo. 1 am the tuning-key, 
which harmonizes your instrument, the regulator to your watch. 
Who would speak, if no ear heard ? nay, if no mind knew what 
the ear heard ? 

Poet. I do not wish to be heard in thought but in love, to be 
recognised in judgment but in life. I would pour forth my 
melodies to the rejoicing winds. I would scatter my seed to the 
tender earth. I do not wish to hear in prose the meaning of my 
melody. 1 do not wish to see my seed neatly put away beneath 
a paper label. Answer in new poeans to the soul of our souls. 
Wake me to sweeter childhood by a fresher growth. At pres- 
ent you are but an excrescence produced by my life ; depart, 
self-conscious Egotist, I know you not. 

Critic Dost thou so adore Nature, and yet deny me ? Is 
not Art the child of Nature, Civilization of Man ? As Religion 
into Philosophy, Poetry into Criticism, Life into Science, Love 
into Law, so did thy lyric in natural order transmute itself, into 
my review. 

Poet. Review ! Science ! the very etymology speaks. What 
is gained by looking again at what has already been seen ? 
What by giving a technical classification to what is already as- 
similated with the mental life ? 

Critic. What is gained by living at all ? 

Poet. Beauty loving itself, — Happiness ! 

Critic Does not this involve consciousness ? 

Poet. Yes ! consciousness of Truth manifested in the indi- 
vidual form. 

Critic Since consciousness is tolerated, how will you limit it ? 



A DIALOGUE. 23 

Poet. By the instincts of my nature, which rejects yours as 
arrogant and superfluous. 

Critic. And the dictate of my nature compels me to the 
processes which you despise, as essential to my peace. My 
brother (for I will not be rejected) I claim my place in the order 
of nature. The word descended and became flesh for two pur- 
poses, to organize itself, and to take cognizance of its organiza- 
tion. When the first Poet worked alone, he paused between the 
cantos to proclaim, " It is very good." Dividing himself among 
men, he made some to create, and others to proclaim the merits 
of what is created. 

Poet. Well ! if you were content with saying, " it is very 
good j" but you are always crying, " it is very bad," or igno- 
rantly prescribing how it might be better. What do you know 
of it ? Whatever is good could not be otherwise than it is. 
Why will you not take what suits you, and leave the rest ? 
True communion of thought is worship, not criticism. Spirit 
will not flow through the sluices nor endure the locks of canals. 

Critic. There is perpetual need of protestantism in every 
church. If the church be catholic, yet the priest is not infalli 
ble. Like yourself, I sigh for a perfectly natural state, in which 
the only criticism shall be tacit rejection, even as Venus glides 
not into the orbit of Jupiter, nor do the fishes seek to dwell in 
fire. But as you soar towards this as a Maker, so do I toil to- 
wards the same aim as a Seeker. Your pinions will not upbear 
you towards it in steady flight. I must often stop to cut away 
the brambles from my path. The law of my being is on me, 
and the ideal standard seeking to be realized in my mind bids me 
demand perfection from all I see. To say how far each object 
answers this demand is my criticism. 

Poet. If one object does not satisfy you, pass on to another 
and say nothing. 

Critic It is not so that it would be well with me. I must 



24 PAPERS ON LITERATURE AND ART. 

penetrate the secret of my wishes, verify the justice of my rea- 
sonings. I must examine, compare, sift, and winnow ; what can 
bear this ordeal remains to me as pure gold. I cannot pass on 
till I know what I feel and why. An object that defies my ut- 
most rigor of scrutiny is a new step on the stair I am making to 
the Olympian tables. 

Poet. I think you will not know the gods when you get 
there, if I may judge from the cold presumption I feel in your 
version of the great facts of literature. 

Critic. Statement of a part always looks like ignorance, 
when compared with the whole, yet may promise the whole. 
Consider that a part implies the whole, as the everlasting No the 
everlasting Yes, and permit to exist the shadow of your light, the 
register of your inspiration. 

As he spake the word he paused, for with it his companion 
vanished, and left floating on the cloud a starry banner with the 
inscription " Afflatur Numine." The Critic unfolded one on 
whose flag-staff" he had been leaning. Its heavy folds of pearly 
gray satin slowly unfolding, gave to view the word Notitia, and 
Causarum would have followed, when a sudden breeze from the 
west caught it, those heavy folds fell back round the poor man, 
and stifled him probably, — at least he has never since been 
heard of. 



THE TWO HERBERTS. 



The following sketch is meant merely to mark some prominent 
features in the minds of the two Herberts, under a form less 
elaborate and more reverent than that of criticism. 

A mind of penetrating and creative power could not find a 
better subject for a masterly picture. The two figures stand 
as representatives of natural religion, and of that of the Son of 
Man, of the life of the philosophical man of the world, and the 
secluded, contemplative, though beneficent existence. 

The present slight effort is not made with a view to the great 
and dramatic results so possible to the plan. It is intended 
chiefly as a setting to the Latin poems of Lord Herbert, which 
are known to few, — a year ago, seemingly, were so to none in 
this part of the world. The only desire in translating them has 
been to do so literally, as any paraphrase, or addition of words 
impairs their profound meaning. It is hoped that, even in their 
present repulsive garb, without rhyme or rhythm, stripped, too, 
of the majestic Roman mantle, the greatness of the thoughts, and 
the large lines of spiritual experience, will attract readers, who 
will not find time misspent in reading them many times. 

George Herbert's heavenly strain is better, though far from 
generally, known. 

There has been no attempt really to represent these persons 
speaking their own dialect, or in their own individual manners. 
The writer loves too well to hope to imitate the sprightly, fresh, 
and varied style of Lord Herbert, or the quaintness and keen 
sweets of his brother's. Neither have accessories been given, 
3 (25) 



26 PAPERS ON LITERATURE AND ART. 

such as might easily have been taken from their works. But 
the thoughts imputed to them they might have spoken, only in 
better and more concise terms, and the facts — are facts. So let 
this be gently received with the rest of the modern tapestries. 
We can no longer weave them of the precious materials princes 
once furnished, but we can give, in our way, some notion of the 
original design. 



It was an afternoon of one of the longest summer days. The 
sun had showered down his amplest bounties, the earth put on 
her richest garment to receive them. The clear heavens seemed 
to open themselves to the desire of mortals ; the day had been 
long enough and bright enough to satisfy an immortal. 

In a green lane leading from the town of Salisbury, in Eng- 
land, the noble stranger was reclining beneath a tree. His eye 
was bent in the direction of the town, as if upon some figure ap- 
proaching or receding ; but its inward turned expression showed 
that he was, in fact, no longer looking, but lost in thought. 

" Happiness !" thus said his musing mind, " it would seem at 
such hours and in such places as if it not merely hovered over 
the earth, a poetic presence to animate our pulses and give us 
courage for what must be, but sometimes alighted. Such fulness 
of expression pervades these fields, these trees, that it excites, not 
rapture, but a blissful sense of peace. Yet, even were this per- 
manent in the secluded lot, would I accept it in exchange for the 
bitter sweet of a wider, freer life ? I could not if I would ; yet, 
methinks, I would not if I could. But here comes George, I 
will argue the point with him." 

He rose from his seat and went forward to meet his brother, 
who at this moment entered the lane. 

The two forms were faithful expressions of their several lives. 
There was a family likeness between them, for they shared ir 
that beauty of the noble English blood, of which, in these days, 



THE TWO HERBERTS. 27 

few types remain : the Norman tempered by the Saxon, the fire 
of conquest by integrity, and a self-contained, inflexible habit of 
mind. In the times of the Sydneys and Russells, the English 
body was a strong and nobly-proportioned vase, in which shone a 
steady and powerful, if not brilliant light. 

The chains of convention, an external life grown out of pro- 
portion with that of the heart and mind, have destroyed, for the 
most part, this dignified beauty. There is no longer, in fact, an 
aristocracy in England, because the saplings are too puny to rep- 
resent the old oak. But that it once existed, and did stand for 
what is best in that nation, any collection of portraits from the 
sixteenth century will show. 

The two men who now met had character enough to exhibit in 
their persons not only the stock from which they sprang, but 
what was special in themselves harmonized with it. There were 
ten years betwixt them, but the younger verged on middle age ; 
and permanent habits, as well as tendencies of character, were 
stamped upon their persons. 

Lord Edward Herbert was one of the handsomest men of his 
day, of a beauty alike stately, chivalric and intellectual. His 
person and features were cultivated by all the disciplines of a 
time when courtly graces were not insignificant, because a mon- 
arch mind informed the court, nor warlike customs, rude or me- 
chanical, for individual nature had free play in the field, except 
as restrained by the laws of courtesy and honor. The steel 
glove became his hand, and the spur his heel ; neither can we 
fancy him out of his place, for any place he would have made 
. his own. But all this grace and dignity of the man of the world 
was in him subordinated to that of the man, for in his eye, and 
in the brooding sense of all his countenance, was felt the life of 
one who, while he deemed that his present honour lay in playing 
well the part assigned him by destiny, never forgot that it was 



28 PAPERS ON LITERATURE AND ART. 

but a part, and fed steadily his forces on that within that passes 
show. 

It has been said, with a deep wisdom, that the figure we most 
need to see before us now is not that of a saint, martyr, sage, 
poet, artist, preacher, or any other whose vocation leads to a se- 
clusion and partial use of faculty, but " a spiritual man of the 
world," able to comprehend all things, exclusively dedicate to 
none. Of this idea we need a new expression, peculiarly 
adapted to our time ; but in the past it will be difficult to find 
one more adequate than the life and person of Lord Herbert. 

George Herbert, like his elder brother, was tall, erect, and 
with the noble air of one sprung from a race whose spirit has 
never been broken or bartered ; but his thin form contrasted with 
the full development which generous living, various exercise, and 
habits of enjoyment had given his brother. Nor had his features 
that range and depth of expression which tell of many-coloured 
experiences, and passions undergone or vanquished. The depth, 
for there was depth, was of feeling rather than experience. A 
penetrating sweetness beamed from him on the observer, who was 
rather raised and softened in himself than drawn to think of the 
being who infused this heavenly fire into his veins. Like the 
violet, the strong and subtle odour of his mind was arrayed at its 
source with such an air of meekness, that the receiver blessed 
rather the liberal winds of heaven than any earth-born flower 
for the gift. 

Raphael has lifted the transfigured Saviour only a little way 
from the ground ; but in the forms and expression of the feet, 
you see that, though they may walk there again, they would 
tread far more naturally a more delicate element. This buoy- 
ant lightness, which, by seeking, seems to tread the air, is indi- 
cated by the text : " Beautiful upon the mountains are the feet 
of those who come with glad tidings." And such thoughts were 
suggested by the gait and gesture of George Herbert, especially 



THE TWO HERBERTS. 29 

as he approached you. Through the faces of most men, ever 
of geniuses, the soul shines as through a mask, or, at best, a 
crystal ; we look behind a shield for the heart. But, with those 
of seraphic nature, or so filled with spirit that translation may be 
near, it seems to hover before or around, announcing or enfold- 
ing them like a luminous atmosphere. Such an one advances 
like a vision, and the eye must steady itself before a spiritual 
light, to recognize him as a reality. 

Some such emotion was felt by Lord Herbert as he looked on 
his brother, who, for a moment or two, approached without ob- 
serving him, but absorbed and radiant in his own happy thoughts. 
They had not met for long, and it seemed that George had 
grown from an uncertain boy, often blushing and shrinking either 
from himself or others, into an angelic clearness, such as the 
noble seeker had not elsewhere found. 

But when he was seen, the embrace was eager and affectionate 
as that of the brother and the child. 

" Let us not return at once," said Lord Herbert. " I had al. 
ready waited for you long, and have seen all the beauties of the 
parsonage and church." 

" Not many, I think, in the eyes of such a critic," said George, 
as they seated themselves in the spot his brother had before 
chosen for the extent and loveliness of prospect. 

" Enough to make me envious of you, if I had not early seen 
enough to be envious of none. Indeed, I know not if such a 
feeling can gain admittance to your little paradise, for I never 
heard such love and reverence expressed as by your people foi 
you." 

George looked upon his brother with a pleased and open sweet- 
ness. Lord Herbert continued, with a little hesitation — " To tell 
the truth, I wondered a little at the boundless affection they de 
clared. Our mother has long and often told me of your pure 
and beneficent life, and I know what you have done for this place 
3* 



30 PAPERS ON LITERATURE AND ART. 

and people, but, as I remember, you were of a choleric tern- 
per." 

" And am so still !" 

" Well, and do you not sometimes, by flashes of that, lose all 
you may have gained ?" 

" It does not often now," he replied, " find open way. My 
Master has been very good to me in suggestions of restraining 
prayer, which come into my mind at the hour of temptation." 

Lord H. — Why do you not say, rather, that your own discern, 
ing mind and maturer will show you more and more the folly 
and wrong of such outbreaks. 

George H. — Because that would not be saying all that I think. 
At such times I feel a higher power interposed, as much as I see 
that yonder tree is distinct from myself. Shall I repeat to you 
some poor verses in which I have told, by means of various like- 
nesses, in an imperfect fashion, how it is with me in this 
matter ? 

Lord H. — Do so ! I shall hear them gladly ; for I, like you, 
though with less time and learning to perfect it, love the delibe- 
rate composition of the closet, and believe we can better under- 
stand one another by thoughts expressed so, than in the, more 
glowing but hasty words of the moment. 

George H. — 

Prayer — the church's banquet ; angel's age ; 

God's breath in man returning to his birth ; 
The soul in paraphrase ; heart in pilgrimage ; 

The Christian plummet, sounding heaven and earth. 

Engine against th' Almighty ; sinner's tower ; 

Reversed thunder ; Christ's side-piercing spear ; 
The six-days' world transposing in an hour ; 

A kind of tune, which all things hear and fear. 

Softness, and peace, and joy, and love, and bliss ; 
Exalted manna ; gladness of the best ; 



THE TWO HERBERTS. 81 

Heaven in ordinary; man well drest; 

The milky way ; the bird of paradise ; 
Church bells beyond the stars heard ; the soul's blood ; 
The land of spices ; something understood. 

Lord H. — (who has listened attentively, after a moment's 
thought.) — There is something in the spirit of your lines which 
pleases me, and, in general, I know not that I should differ ; yet 
you have expressed yourself nearest to mine own knowledge and 
feeling, where you have left more room to consider our prayers 
as aspirations, rather than the gifts of grace ; as — 

" Heart in pilgrimage ;" 
" A kind of tune, which all things hear and fear." 
" Something understood." 

In your likenesses, you sometimes appear to quibble in a way 
unworthy the subject. 

George H. — It is the nature of some minds, brother, to play 
with what they love best. Yours is of a grander and severer 
cast ; it can only grasp and survey steadily what interests it. 
My walk is different, and I have always admired you in yours 
without expecting to keep pace with you. 

Lord H. — I hear your sweet words with the more pleasure, 
George, that I had supposed you were now too much of the 
churchman to value the fruits of my thought. 

George H. — God forbid that I should ever cease to reverence 
the mind that was, to my own, so truly that of an elder brother ! 
I do lament that you will not accept the banner of my Master, 
and drink at what I have found the fountain of pure wisdom. 
But as I would not blot from the book of life the prophets and 
priests that came before Him, nor those antique sages who 
knew all 

That Reason hath from Nature borrowed, 

Or of itself, like a good housewife spun, 

In laws and policy : what the stars conspire : 



32 PAPERS ON LITERATURE AND ART. 

What willing Nature speaks ; what, freed by fire : 
Both th' old discoveries, and the new found seas : 
The stock and surplus, cause and history, — 

As I cannot resign and disparage these, because they have not 
what I conceive to be the pearl of all knowledge, how could I 
you ? 

Lord H.—You speak wisely, George, and, let me add, re- 
ligiously. Were all churchmen as tolerant, I had never assailed 
the basis of their belief. Did they not insist and urge upon us 
their way as the one only way, not for them alone, but for all, 
none would wish to put stumbling-blocks before their feet. 

George H. — Nay, my brother, do not misunderstand me. 
None, more than I, can think there is but one way to arrive 
finally at truth. 

Lord H. — I do not misunderstand you ; but, feeling that you 
are one who accept what you do from love of the best, and not 
from fear of the worst, I am as much inclined to tolerate your 
conclusions as you to tolerate mine. 

George H. — I do not consider yours as conclusions, but only 
as steps to such. The progress of the mind should be from natu- 
ral to revealed religion, as there must be a sky for the sun to 
give light through its expanse. 

Lord H. — The sky is — nothing ! 

George H. — Except room for a sun, and such there is in you. 
Of your own need of such, did you not give convincing proof, 
when you prayed for a revelation to direct whether you should 
publish a book against revelation ?* 

* The following narration, published by Lord Herbert, in his life, has often 
been made use of by his opponents. It should be respected as an evidence of 
his integrity, being, like the rest of his memoir, a specimen of absolute truth 
and frankness towards himself and all other beings : — 

Having many conscientious doubts whether or no to publish his book, Da 
Veritate, (which was against revealed religion, on the ground that it was im- 
probable that Heaven should deal partially with men, revealing its will to one 



THE TWO HERBERTS. 33 

Lord H. — You borrow that objection from the crowd, George ; 
but I wonder you have not looked into the matter more deeply. 
Is there any thing inconsistent with disbelief in a partial plan of 
salvation for the nations, which, by its necessarily limited work- 
ing, excludes the majority of men up to our day, with belief that 
each individual soul, wherever born, however nurtured, may re- 
ceive immediate response, in an earnest hour, from the source of 
;ruth. 

George H. — But you believed the customary order of nature 
to be deranged in your behalf. What miraculous record does 
more ? 

Lord H. — It was at the expense of none other. A spirit 
asked, a spirit answered, and its voice was thunder ; but, in this, 
there was nothing special, nothing partial Wrought in my behalf, 
more than if I had arrived at theS^tieJcQiJiaijisJwi by a process 
of reasoning. \\ ^ £,« ■ JJ 

George H. — I cannot but think, that if your mind were al- 

race and nation, not to another,) " Being thus doubtful in my chamber, one fair 
day in the summer, my casement being opened to the south, the sun shining 
clear and no wind stirring, I took my book, De Veritate, in my hand, and kneel- 
ing on my knees, devoutly said these words : — O, thou eternal God, author of 
the light which now shines upon me, and giver of all inward illuminations, I 
do beseech thee, of thy infinite goodness, to pardon a greater request than a 
sinner ought to make. I am not satisfied enough whether I shall publish this 
book, De Veritate. If it be for thy glory, I beseech thee give me some sign 
from heaven; if not, I shall suppress it. — I had no sooner spoken these words, 
but a loud, though yet gentle noise came from the heavens, (for it was like no- 
thing on earth,) which did so comfort and cheer me, that I took my petition as 
granted, and that I had the sign I demanded, whereupon, also, I resolved to 
print my book. This, how strange soever it may seem, I protest before the 
Eternal God, is true ; neither am I any way superstitiously deceived herein, 
since I did not only clearly hear the noise, but in the serenest sky that ever I 
saw, being without all cloud, did, to my thinking, see the place from whence it 
came." 

Lord Orford observes, with his natural sneer, "How could a man who 
doubted of partial, believe w.dividual revelation ?" 



34 PAPERS ON LITERATURE AND ART. 

lowed, by the nature of your life, its free force to search, it 
would survey the subject in a different way, and draw inferences 
more legitimate from a comparison of its own experience with 
the gospel. 

Lord H. — My brother does not think the mind is free to act 
in courts and camps. To me it seems that the mind takes its 
own course everywhere, and that, if men cannot have outward, 
they can always mental seclusion. None is so profoundly lonely, 
none so in need of constant self-support, as he who, living in the 
crowd, thinks an inch aside from, or in advance of it. The her- 
mitage of such an one is still and cold ; its silence unbroken to a 
degree of which these beautiful and fragrant solitudes give no 
hint. These sunny sights and sounds, promoting reverie rather 
than thought, are scarce more favourable to a great advance in 
the intellect, than the distractions of the busy street. Beside, we 
need the assaults of other minds to quicken our powers, so easily 
hushed to sleep, and call it peace. The mind takes a bias too 
easily, and does not examine whether from tradition or a native 
growth intended by the heavens. 

George H. — But you are no common man. You shine, you 
charm, you win, and the world presses too eagerly on you to 
leave many hours for meditation. 

Lord H. — It is a common error to believe that the most pros- 
perous men love the world best. It may be hardest for them to 
leave it, because they have been made effeminate and slothful by 
want of that exercise which difficulty brings. But this is not the 
case with me ; for, while the common boons of life's game have 
been too easily attained, to hold high value in my ej«s, the goal 
which my secret mind, from earliest infancy, prescribed, has been 
high enough to task all my energies. Every year has helped to 
make that, and that alone, of value in my eyes ; and did I be- 
lieve that life, in scenes like this, would lead me to it more 
Bpeedily than in my accustomed broader way, I would seek it 



THE TWO HERBERTS. 35 

to-morrow — nay, to-day. But is it worthy of a man to make him 
a cell, in which alone he can worship ? Give me rather the al- 
ways open temple of the universe ! To me, it seems that the 
only course for a man is that pointed out by birth and fortune. 
Let him take that and pursue it with clear eyes and head erect, 
secure that it must pfcint at last to those truths which are central 
to us, wherever we stand ; and if my road, leading through the 
busy crowd of men, amid the clang and bustle of conflicting in- 
terests and passions, detain me longer than would the still path 
through the groves, the chosen haunt of contemplation, yet I in- 
cline to think that progress so, though slower, is surer. Owing 
no safety, no clearness to my position, but so far as it is attained 
to mine own effort, encountering what temptations, doubts and 
lures may beset a man, what I do possess is more surely mine, 
and less a prey to contingencies. It is a well-tempered wine 
that has been carried over many seas, and escaped many ship- 
wrecks. 

George H. — I can the less gainsay you, my lord and brother, 
that your course would have been mine couH I have chosen. 

Lord H. — Yes ; I remember thy verse : — 

Whereas my birth and spirits rather took 

The way that takes the town ; 
Thou didst betray me to a lingering book, 

And wrap me in a gown. 

It was not my fault, George, that it so chanced. 

George H. — I have long learnt to feel that it noway chanced ; 
that thus, and no other, was it well for me. But how I view 
these matters you are, or may be well aware, through a little 
book I have writ. Of you I would fain learn more than can be 
shown me by the display of your skill in controversy in your 
printed works, or the rumors of your feats at arms, or success 
With the circles of fair ladies, which reach even this quiet nook. 
Rather let us, in this hour of intimate converse, such as we have 



36 PAPERS ON LITERATURE AND ART. 

not had for years, and may not have again, draw near in what is 
nearest ; and do you, my dear Lord, vouchsafe your friend and 
brother some clear tokens as to that goal you say has from child- 
hood been mentally prescribed you, and the way you have taken 
to gain it. 

Lord H. — I will do this willingly, and the rather that I have 
with me a leaf, in which I have lately recorded what appeared 
to me in glimpse or flash in my young years, and now shines upon 
my life with steady ray. I brought it, with some thought that I 
might impart it to you, which confidence I have not shown to 
any yet ; though if, as I purpose, some memoir of my life and 
times should fall from my pen, these poems may be interwoven 
there as cause and comment for all I felt, and knew, and was. 
The first contains my thought of the beginning and progress of 
life :— 

{From the Latin of Lord Herbert.) 

LIFE. 

First, the life stirred within the genial seed, 
Seeking its properties, whence plastic power 
Was born. Chaos, with lively juice pervading, 
External form in its recess restraining, 
While the conspiring causes might accede, 
And full creation safely be essayed. 

Next, movement was in the maternal field ; 

Fermenting spirit puts on tender limbs, 

And, earnest, now prepares, of wondrous fabric, 

The powers of sense, a dwelling not too mean for mind contriving 

That, sliding from its heaven, it may put on 

These faculties, and, prophesying future fate, 

Correct the slothful weight (of matter,) nor uselessly be manifested. 

A third stage, now, scene truly great contains 
The solemn feast of heaven, the theatre of earth, 
Kindred and species, varied forms of things 



THE TWO HERBERTS. 37 

Are here discerned, — and, from its own impulse, 

It is permitted to the soul to circle, 

Hither and thither rove, that it may see 

Laws and eternal covenants of its world, 

And stars returning in assiduous course, 

The causes and the bonds of life to learn, 

And from afar foresee the highest will. 

How he to admirable harmony 

Tempers the various motions of the world, 

And Father, Lord, Guardian, and Builder-up, 

And Deity on every side is styled. 

Next, from this knowledge the fourth stage proceeds : 

Cleansing away its stains, mind daily grows more pure, 

Enriched with various learning, strong in virtue, 

Extends its powers, and breathes sublimer air: 

A secret spur is felt within the inmost heart, 

That he who will, may emerge from this perishable state, 

And a happier is sought 

By ambitious rites, consecrations, religious worship, 

And a new hope succeeds, conscious of a better fate, 

Clinging to things above, expanding through all the heavens, 

And the Divine descends to meet a holy love, 

And unequivocal token is given of celestial life. 

That, as a good servant, I shall receive my reward ; 

Or, if worthy, enter as a son, into the goods of my father, 

God himself is my surety. When I shall put off this life, 

Confident in a better, free in my own will, 

He himself is my surety, that a fifth, yet higher state shall ensue, 

And a sixth, and all, in fine, that my heart shall know how to ask. 



CONJECTURES CONCERNING THE HEAVENLY LIFE. 

Purified in my whole genius, I congratulate myself 
Secure of fate, while neither am I downcast by any terrors, 
Nor store up secret griefs in my heart, 
But pass my days cheerfully in the midst of mishaps, 
Despite the evils which engird the earth, 
Seeking the way above the stars with ardent virtue. 
I have received, beforehand, the first fruits of heavenly life — 
4 



38 PAPERS ON LITERATURE AND ART. 

1 now seek the later, sustained by divine love, 

Through which, conquering at once the scoffs of a gloomy destiny, 

I leave the barbarous company of a frantic age, 

Breathing out for the last time the infernal air — breathing in the supernal, 

I enfold myself wholly in these sacred flames, 

And, sustained by them, ascend the highest dome, 

And far and wide survey the wonders of a new sphere, 

And see well-known spirits, now beautiful in their proper light, 

And the choirs of the higher powers, and blessed beings 

With whom I desire to mingle fires and sacred bonds — 

Passing from joy to joy the heaven of all, 

What has been given to ourselves, or sanctioned by a common vow. 

God, in the meantime, accumulating his rewards, 

May at once increase our honour and illustrate his own love. 

Nor heavens shall be wanting to heavens, nor numberless ages to liie, 

Nor new joys to these ages, such as an 

Eternity shall not diminish, nor the infinite bring to an end. 

Nor, more than all, shall the fair favour of the Divine be wanting — 

Constantly increasing these joys, varied in admirable modes, 

And making each state yield only to one yet happier, 

And what we never even knew how to hope, is given to us — 

Nor is aught kept back except what only the One can conceive, 

And what in their own nature are by far most perfect 

In us, at least, appear embellished, 

Since the sleeping minds which heaven prepares from the beginning — 

Only our labor and industry can vivify, 

Polishing them with learning and with morals, 

That they may return all fair, bearing back a dowry to heaven, 

When, by use of our free will, we put to rout those ills 

Which heaven has neither dispelled, nor will hereafter dispel. 

Thus through us is magnified the glory of God, 

And our glory, too, shall resound throughout the heavens, 

And what axp the due rewards of virtue, finally 

Must render the Father himself more happy than his wont. 

Whence still more ample grace shall be showered upon us, 

Each and all yielding to our prayer, 

For, if liberty be dear, it is permitted 

To roam through the loveliest regions obvious to innumerable heavens, 

And gather, aa we pass, the delights of each, 



THE TWO HERBERTS. 39 

If fixed contemplation be chosen rather in the mind, 

All the mysteries of the high regions shall be laid open to us, 

And the joy will be to know the methods of God, — 

Then it may be permitted to act upon earth, to have a care 

Of the weal of men, and to bestow just laws. 

If we are more delighted with celestial love, 

We are dissolved into flames which glide about and excite one another 

Mutually, embraced in sacred ardours, 

Spring upwards, enfolded together in firmest bonds, 

In parts and wholes, mingling by turns, 

And the ardour of the Divine kindles (in them) still new ardours, 

It will make us happy to praise God, while he commands us, 

The angelic choir, singing together with sweet modulation, 

Sounds through heaven, publishing our joys, 

And beauteous spectacles are put forth, hour by hour, 

And, as it were, the whole fabric of heaven becomes a theatre, 

Till the divine energy pervades the whole sweep of the world, 

And chisels out from it new forms, 

Adorned with new faculties, of larger powers. 

Our forms, too, may then be renewed — 

4ssume new forms and senses, till our 

Toys again rise up consummate. 

If trusting thus, I shall have put off this mortal weed, 

Why may not then still greater things be disclosed 1 

George H. — (who, during his brother's reading, has listened, 
v>Ah head bowed down, leaned on his arm, looks up after a few 
moments' silence) — Pardon, my lord, if I have not fit words to 
answei you. The flood of your thought has swept over me like 
music, and like that, for the time, at least, it fills and satisfies. 
I am conscious of many feelings which are not touched upon 
there, — of the depths of love and sorrow made known to men, 
through One whom you as yet know not. But of these I will not 
speak now, except to ask, borne on this strong pinion, have you 
never faltered till you felt the need of a friend ? strong in this 
clear vision, have you never sighed for a more homefelt assu- 
rance 10 youi laith ? steady in your demand of what the soul re- 



40 PAPERS ON LITERATURE AND ART. 

quires, have you never known fear lest you want purity to re. 
ceive the boon if granted ? 

Lord H. — 1 do not count those weak moments, George ; they 
are not my true life. 

George H. — It suffices that you know them, for, in time, I 
doubt not that every conviction which a human being needs, to be 
reconciled to the Parent of all, will be granted to a nature so 
ample, so open, and so aspiring. Let me answer in a strain 
which bespeaks my heart as truly, if not as nobly as yours an. 
swers to your great mind, — 

My joy, my life, my crown ! 

My heart was meaning all the day 

Somewhat it fain would say ; 
And still it mnneth, muttering, up and down, 
With only this — my joy, mylife, my crown. 

Yet slight not these few words ; 

If truly said, they may take part 

Among the best in art. 
The fineness which a hymn or psalm affords, 
Is, when the soul unto the lines accords. 

He who craves all the mind 

And all the soul, and strength and time ; 

If the words only rhyme, 
Justly complains, that somewhat is behind 
To make his verse or write a hymn in kind. 

Whereas, if the heart be moved, 

Although the verse be somewhat scant, 

God doth supply the want — 
As when the heart says, sighing to be approved, 
" Oh, could I love !" and stops; God writeth, loved. 

Lord H. — I cannot say to you truly that my mind replies to 
this, although I discern a beaut) - in it. You will say I lack hu« 
mility to understand yours. 



THE TWO HERBERTS. 41 

George H. — I will say nothing, but leave you to time and the 
care of a greater than I. We have exchanged our verse, let us 
now change our subject too, and walk homeward ; for I trust 
you, this night, intend to make my roof happy in your presence, 
and the sun is sinking. 

Lord H. — Yes, you know I am there to be introduced to my 
new sister, whom I hope to love, and win from her a sisterly re- 
gard in turn. 

George H. — You, none can fail to regard ; and for her, even 
as you love me, you must her, for we are one. 

Lord H. — (smiling) — Indeed ; two years wed, and say that. 

George H. — Will your lordship doubt it ? From your muse 
I took my first lesson. 



****** 
With a look, it seem'd denied 

All earthly powers but hers, yet so 
As if to her breath he did owe 
This borrow'd life, he thus replied — 

And shall our love, so far beyond 
That low and dying appetite, 
And which so chaste desires unite, 
Not hold in an eternal bond 1 

O no, belov'd ! I am most sure 
Those virtuous habits we acquire, 
As being with the soul entire, 
Must with it evermore endure. 

Else should our souls in vain elect ; 
And vainer yet were heaven's laws 
When to an everlasting cause 
They gave a perishing effect. 

Lord H. — (sighing) — You recall a happy season, when my 
thoughts were as delicate of hue, and of as heavenly a perfume 
as the flowers of May. 

4* 



42 PAPERS ON LITERATURE AND ART. 

George H. — Have those flowers borne no fruit ? 

Lord H. — My experience of the world and men had made me 
believe that they did not indeed bloom in vain, but that the fruit 
would be ripened in some future sphere of our existence. What 
my own marriage was you know, — a family arrangement made 
for me in my childhood. Such obligations as such a marriage 
could imply, I have fulfilled, and it has not failed to bring me 
some benefits of good- will and esteem, and far more, in the hap- 
piness of being a parent. But my observation of the ties formed, 
by those whose choice was left free, has not taught me that a 
higher happiness than mine was the destined portion of men. 
They are too immature to form permanent relations ; all that 
they do seems experiment, and mostly fails for the present. 
Thus I had postponed all hopes except of fleeting joys or ideal 
pictures. Will you tell me that you are possessed already of 
so much more ? 

George H. — I am indeed united in a bond, whose reality I can- 
not doubt, with one whose thoughts, affections, and objects every 
way correspond with mine, and in whose life I see a purpose so 
pure that, if we are ever separated, the fault must be mine. I 
believe God, in his exceeding grace, gave us to one another, for 
we met almost at a glance, without doubt before, jar or repent- 
ance after, the vow which bound our lives together. 

Lord H. — Then there is indeed one circumstance of your lot 
I could wish to share with you. (After some moments' silence 
on both sides) — They told me at the house, that, with all your en- 
gagements, you go twice a-week to Salisbury. How is that ? 
How can you leave your business and your happy home, so much 
and often ? 

George H. — I go to hear the music ; the great solemn church 
music. This is, at once, the luxury and the necessity of my life. 
I know not how it is with others, but, with me, there is a frequent 
drooping of the wings, a smouldering of the inward fires, a Ian- 



THE TWO HERBERTS. 43 

guor, almost a loathing of corporeal existence. Of this visible 
diurnal sphere I am, by turns, the master, the interpreter, and 
the victim ; an ever burning lamp, to warm again the embers 
of the altar j a skiff, that cannot be becalmed, to bear me again 
on the ocean of hope ; an elixir, that fills the dullest fibre with 
ethereal energy ; such, music is to me. It stands in relation to 
speech, even to the speech of poets, as the angelic choir, who, in 
their subtler being, may inform the space around us, unseen but 
felt, do to men, even to prophetic men. It answers to the soul's 
presage, and, in its fluent life, embodies all I yet know how to 
desire. As all the thoughts and hopes of human souls are 
blended by the organ to a stream of prayer and praise, I tune at 
it my separate breast, and return to my little home, cheered and 
ready for my day's work, as the lark does to her nest after her 
morning visit to the sun. 

Lord H. — The ancients held that the spheres made music tc 
those who had risen into a state which enabled them to hear it. 
Pythagoras, who prepared different kinds of melody to guide and 
expand the differing natures of his pupils, needed himself to hear 
none on instruments made by human art, for the universal har- 
mony which comprehends all these was audible to him. Man feels 
in all his higher moments, the need of traversing a subtler ele- 
ment, of a winged existence. Artists have recognised wings as 
the symbol of the state next above ours ; but they have not been 
able so to attach them to the forms of gods and angels as to make 
them agree with the anatomy of the human frame. Perhaps 
music gives this instruction, and supplies the deficiency. Al- 
though I see that I do not feel it as habitually or as profoundly 
as you do, I have experienced such impressions from it. 

George H. — That is truly what I mean. It introduces me into 
that winged nature, and not as by way of supplement, but of in- 
evitable transition. All that has budded in me, bursts into bloom, 
under this influence. As I sit in our noble cathedral, in itself 



44 PAPERS ON LITERATURE AND ART. 

one of the holiest thoughts ever embodied by the power of man, 
the great tides of song come rushing through its aisles ; they per- 
vade all the space, and my soul within it, perfuming me like in- 
cense, bearing me on like the wind, and on and on to regions of 
unutterable joy, and freedom, and certainty. As their triumph 
rises, I rise with them, and learn to comprehend by living them, 
till at last a calm rapture seizes me, and holds me poised. The 
same life you have attained in your description of the celestial 
choirs. It is the music of the soul, when centred in the will of 
God, thrilled by the love, expanded by the energy, with which it 
is fulfilled through all the ranges of active life. From such 
hours, I return through these green lanes, to hear the same tones 
from the slightest flower, to long for a life of purity and praise, 
such as is manifested by the flowers. 

At this moment they reached the door, and there paused to 
look back. George Herbert bent upon the scene a half-abstracted 
look, yet which had a celestial tearfulness in it, a pensiveness 
beyond joy. His brother looked on him, and, beneath that fading 
twilight, it seemed to him a farewell look. It was so. Soon 
George Herbert soared into the purer state, for which his soul 
had long been ready, though not impatient. 

The brothers met no more ; but they had enjoyed together one 
hour of true friendship, when mind drew near to mind by the 
light of faith, and heart mingled with heart in the atmosphere of 
Divine love. It was a great boon to be granted two mortals. 



THE PROSE WORKS OF MILTON 

WITH A BIOGRAPHICAL INTRODUCTION, BY R. W. GRISWOLD. 



. The noble lines of Wordsworth, quoted by Mr. Griswold on 
his title-page, would be the best and a sufficient advertisement of 
each reprint : 

" Milton ! thou shouldst be living at this hour. 
Return to us again, 
And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power. 
Thy soul was like a Star, and dwelt apart; 
Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the Sea : 
Pure as the naked Heavens, majestic, free : 
So didst thou travel on life's common way 
In cheerful Godliness, and yet thy heart 
The lowliest duties on herself did lay." 

One should have climbed to as high a point as Wordsworth to 
be able to review Milton, or even to view in part his high places. 
From the hill-top we still strain our eyes looking up to the moun- 
tain-peak — 

"Itself Earth's Rosy Star." 

We rejoice to see that there is again a call for an edition of 
Milton's Prose Works. There could not be a surer sign that 
there is still pure blood in the nation than a call for these. The 
print and paper are tolerably good , if not worthy of the matter, 
yet they are, we suppose, as good as can be afforded and make 
the book cheap enough for general circulation. We wish there 

(45) 



46 PAPERS ON LITERATURE AND ART. 

had been three volumes, instead of two clumsy ones, with that 
detestably narrow inner margin of which we have heretofore 
complained. But we trust the work is in such a shape that it 
will lie on the table of all poor students who are ever to be 
scholars, and be the good angel, the Ithuriel warner of manv a 
youth at the parting of the ways. Who chooses that way which 
the feet of Milton never forsook, will find in him a never failing 
authority for the indissoluble union between permanent strength 
and purity. May many, born and bred amid the corruptions of 
a false world till the heart is on the verge of a desolate scepti- 
cism and the good genius preparing to fly, be led to recall him. 
and make him at home forever by such passages as we have read 
this beautiful bright September morning, in the ' Apology foi 
Smectymnuus.' We chanced happily upon them, as we were 
pondering some sad narrations of daily life, and others who need 
the same consolation, will no doubt detect them in a short inter- 
course with the volumes. 

Mr. Griswold thus closes his " Biographical Introduction :" — 

" On Sunday, the eighth day of November, 1674, one month before com- 
pleting his sixty-sixth year, John Milton died. He was the greatest of all 
human beings : the noblest and the ennobler of mankind. He has steadily 
grown in the world's reverence, and his fame will still increase with the lapse of 
ages." 

The absolute of this superlative pleases us, even if we do be- 
lieve that there are four or five names on the scroll of history 
which may be placed beside that of Milton. We love hero-wor- 
ship, where the hero is, indeed, worthy the honors of a demi-god. 
And, if Milton be not absolutely the greatest of human beings, it 
is hard to name one who combines so many features of God's own 
image, ideal grandeur, a life of spotless virtue, heroic endeavour 
and constancy, with such richness of gifts. 

We cannot speak worthily of the books before us. They have 
been, as they will be, our friends and teachers, but to express 



THE PROSE WORKS OF MILTON. 47 

with any justice what they are to us, or our idea of what they 
are to the world at large — to make any estimate of the vast fund 
of pure gold they contain and allow for the residuum of local and 
partial judgment and human frailty — to examine the bearings 
of various essays on the past and present with even that degree 
of thought and justice of which we are capable, would be a work 
of months. It would be to us a careful, a solemn, a sacred task, 
and not in anywise to be undertaken in the columns of a daily 
paper. Beside, who can think of Milton without the feeling 
which he himself expresses 1 — 

- " He who would not be frustrate of his hope to write well hereafter in laud- 
able things, ought himself to be a true poem ; that is, a composition and pat- 
tern of the best and honorablest things ; not presuming to sing high praises of 
heroic men, or famous cities, unless he have in himself the experience and the 
practice of all that which is praiseworthy." 

We shall, then, content ourselves with stating three reasons 
which at this moment occur to us why these Essays of Milton 
deserve to be sought and studied beyond any other volumes of 
English prose : 

1st. He draws us to a central point whither converge the rays 
of sacred and profane, ancient and modern Literature. Those who 
sit at his feet obtain every hour glimpses in all directions. The 
constant perception of principles, richness in illustrations and 
fullness of knowledge, make him the greatest Master we have in 
the way of giving clues and impulses. His plan tempts even 
very timid students to hope they may thread the mighty maze of 
the Past. This fullness of knowledge only a genius masculine 
and divine like his could animate. He says, in a letter to Diodati, 
written as late as his thirtieth year: "It is well known, and 
you well know, that I am naturally slow in writing and adverse 
to write." Indeed his passion for acquisition preceded long and 
tar outwent, in the first part of his prime, the need of creation or 
expression, and, probably, no era less grand and fervent than his 



48 PAPERS ON LITERATURE AND ART 

own could have made him still more the genius than the scholar. 
But he was fortunate in an epoch fitted to develop him to his full 
stature — an epoch rich alike in thought, action and passion, in 
great results and still greater beginnings. There was fire enough 
to bring the immense materials he had collected into a state of 
fusion. Still his original bias infects the pupil, and this Master 
makes us thirst for Learning no less than for Life. 

2d. He affords the highest exercise at once to the poetic and 
reflective faculties. Before us move sublime presences, the types 
of whole regions of creation : God, man, and elementary spirits 
in multitudinous glory are present to our consciousness. But 
meanwhile every detail is grasped and examined, and strong 
daily interests mark out for us a wide and plain path on the earth 
— a wide and plain path, but one in which it requires the most 
varied and strenuous application of our energies to follow the 
rapid and vigorous course of our guide. No one can read the 
Essays without feeling that the glow which follows is no mere 
nervous exaltation, no result of electricity from another mind 
under which he could remain passive, but a thorough and whole- 
some animation of his own powers. We seek to know, to act, 
and to be what is possible to Man. 

3d. Mr. Griswold justly and wisely observes : — " Milton is 
more emphatically American than any author who has lived in 
the United States." He is so because in him is expressed so 
much of the primitive vitality of that thought from which Ameri- 
ca is born, though at present disposed to forswear her lineage in 
so many ways. He is the purity of Puritanism. He understood 
the nature of liberty, of justice — what is required for the unim- 
peded action of conscience — what constitutes true marriage, and 
the scope of a manly education. He is one of the Fathers of this 
Age, of that new Idea which agitates the sleep of Europe, and ot 
which America, if awake to the design of Heaven and her own 



THE PROSE WORKS OF MILTON. 49 

duty, would become the principal exponent. But the Father is 
Still far beyond the understanding of his child. 

His ideas of marriage, as expressed in the treatises on Divorce, 
are high and pure. He aims at a marriage of souls. If he in- 
cline too much to the prerogative of his own sex, it was from that 
mannishness, almost the same with boorishness, that is evident in 
men of the greatest and richest natures, who have never known 
the refining influence of happy, mutual love, as the best women 
evince narrowness and poverty under the same privation. In 
every line we see how much Milton required the benefit of " the 
thousand decencies that daily flow" from such a relation, and how 
greatly he would have been the gainer by it, both as man and as 
genius. In his mind lay originally the fairest ideal of woman ; 
to see it realized would have " finished his education." His 
commonwealth could only have grown from the perfecting of 
individual men. The private means to such an end he rather 
hints than states in the short essay to Education. They are such 
as we are gradually learning to prize. Healthful diet, varied 
bodily exercises, to which we no longer need give the martial 
aim he proposed, fit the mind for studies which are by him ar- 
ranged in a large, plastic and natural method. 

Among the prophetic features of his system we may mention 
the place given to Agriculture and Music : 

" The next step would be to the authors on agriculture — Cato, Varro and 
Columella — for the matter is most easy ; and if the language be difficult so 
much the better; it is not a difficulty above their years. And here will be an oc- 
casion of inciting, and enabling them hereafter to improve the tillage of their 
country, to recover their bad soil, and to remedy the waste that is made of good ; 
for this was one of Hercules' praises." 

How wise, too, his directions as to interspersing the study with 
travel and personal observation of important objects. We must 
have methods of our own, but the hints we might borrow from 
his short essay of Milton's are endless. 
5 



50 PArERS ON LITERATURE AND ART. 

Then of music — 

"The interim may, both with profit and delight, be taken up in recreating 
and composing their travailed spirits with the solemn and divine harmonies of 
music heard or learned ; either whilst the skillful organist plies his grave and 
fancied descant in lofty fugues, or the whole symphony with artful and un- 
imaginable touches adorn and grace the well-studied chords of some choice com- 
poser ; sometimes the lute or soft organ-stop waiting on elegant voices, either to 
religious, martial, or civil ditties ; which, if wise men and prophets be not ex- 
tremely out, have a great power over disposition and manners to smoothe and 
make them gentle from rustic harshness and distempered passions." 

He does not mention here the higher offices of music, but 
that they had been fulfilled to him is evident in the whole texture 
of his mind and his page. The organ was his instrument, and 
there is not a strain of its peculiar music that may not somewhere 
be traced in his verse or prose. Here, too, he was prophetical 
of our age, of which Music is the great and growing art, making 
deeper revelations than any other mode of expression now adopted 
by the soul. 

After these scanty remarks upon the glories of this sun-like 
mind, let us look for a moment on the clouds which hung about 
its earthly course. Let us take some hints from his letters : — 

" It is often a subject of sorrowful reflection to me, that those with whom I 
have been either fortuitously or legally associated by contiguity of place or some 
tie of little moment, are continually at hand to infest my home, to stun me with 
their noise and waste me with vexation, while those who are endeared to me by 
the closest sympathy of manners, of tastes and pursuits, are almost all withheld 
from my embrace either t»y death or an insuperable distance of place ; and have 
for the most part been so iapidly hurried from my sight, that my prospects seem 
continually solitary, and my heart perpetually desolate." 

The last letter in the volume ends thus : 

"What you term policy, and which I wish that you had rather called patriotic 
piety, has, if I may so say, almost left me, who was charmed with so sweet a 
Eound, without a country. * * * I will conclude after first begging you, 
if there be any errors in the diction or the punctuation, to impute it to the boy 



THE PROSE WORKS OF MILTON. 51 

who wrote this, who is quite ignorant of Latin, and to whom I was, with no 
little vexation, obliged to dictate not the words, but, one by one, the letters of which 
they were composed." 

The account of the gradual increase of his blindness is inter- 
esting, physiologically as well as otherwise : — 

"It is now, I think, about ten years (1654) since I perceived my vision to 
grow weak and dull ; and, at the same time, I was troubled with pain in my 
kidneys and bowels, accompanied with flatulency. In the morning, if I began 
to read, as was my custom, my eyes instantly ached intensely, but were refresh- 
ed after a little corporeal exercise. The candle which I looked at seemed as if 
it were encircled by a rainbow. Not long after the sight in the left part of the 
left eye (which I lost some years before the other) became quite obscured, and 
prevented me from discerning any object on that side. The sight in my other 
eye has now been gradually and sensibly vanishing away for about three years ; 
some months before it had entirely perished, though I stood motionless, every 
thing which I looked at seemed in motion to and fro. A stiff cloudy vapor 
seemed to have settled on my forehead and temples, which usually occasions a 
sort of somnolent pressure upon my eyes, and particularly from dinner till even- 
ing. So that I often recollect what is said of the poet Phineas in the Ar- 
gonautics : 

{ A stupor deep his cloudy temples bound, 
And when he waked he seemed as whirling round, 
Or in a feeble trance he speechless lay.' 

I ought not to omit that, while I had any sight left, as soon as I lay down 
on my bed, and turned on either side, a flood of light used to gush from my closed 
eyelids. Then, as my sight, became daily more impaired, the colors became 
more faint, and were emitted with a certain crackling sound ; but, at present, 
every species of illumination being, as it were, extinguished, there is diffused 
around me nothing but darkness, or darkness mingled and streaked with an 
ashy brown. Yet the darkness in which I am perpetually immersed seems al- 
ways, both by night and day, to approach nearer to a white than black ; and 
when the eye is rolling in its socket, it admits a little particle of light as through 
a chink. And though your physician may kindle a small ray of hope, yet I 
make up my mind to the malady as quite incurable ; and I often reflect, that as 
the wise man admonishes, days of darkness are destined to each of us. The 
darkness which I experience, less oppressive than that of the tomb, is, owing 
to the singular goodness of the Deity, passed amid the pursuits of literature and 



52 PAPERS ON LITERATURE AND ART. 

the cheering salutations of friendship. But if, as it is written, man shall not live 
by bread alone, but by every word that proceedeth from the mouth of God 
why may not any one acquiesce in the privation of his sight, when God has sc 
amply furnished his mind and his conscience with eyes ? While He so tender- 
ly provides for me, while He so graciously leads me by the hand and conducts 
me on the way, I will, since it is His pleasure, rather rejoice than repine at be- 
ing blind. And my dear Philura, whatever may be the event, I wish you adieu 
with no less courage and composure than if I had the eyes of a lynx." 

Though the organist was wrapped in utter darkness, 'only- 
mingled and streaked with an ashy brown,' still the organ pealed 
forth its perpetual, sublime Te Deum ! Shall we, sitting in the 
open sun-light, dare tune our humble pipes to any other strain ? 
Thou may'st thank Him, Milton, for, but for this misfortune, thou 
hadst been a benefactor to the great and strong only, but now tc 
the multitude and suffering also thy voice comes, bidding them 
* bate no jot of heart or hope,' with archangelic power and melody. 



THE LIFE OF SIR JAMES MACKINTOSH. 

BY HIS SON ; ROBERT JAMES MACKINTOSH. 

" Biography is by nature the most universally profitable, universally pleasant 
of all things ; especially biography of distinguished individuals." [Opinion of 
the sagacious Hofrath Henshrecke, as quoted in Sartor Resartus.] 

If the biography of a distinguished individual be thus especially 
pleasant a matter, how most of all pleasant is it when a child is 
found worthy to erect the monument with which the world es- 
teems his father worthy to be honoured ! We see that it is nc 
part of the plan of the universe to make nature or talent heredi- 
tary. The education of circumstances supersedes that of sys- 
tem, unlooked for influences disturb the natural action of the pa- 
rent's character on that of the child ; and all who have made 
even a few observations of this sort, must feel that, here as else- 
where, planting and watering had best be done for duty or love's 
sake, without any sanguine hopes as to the increase. From mis- 
taken notions of freedom, or an ill-directed fondness for experi- 
mentalizing, the son is often seen to disregard the precepts or ex- 
ample of his father ; and it is a matter of surprise if the scion is 
found to bear fruit of a similar, not to say equal flavor, with the 
parent tree. 

How opposed all this is to our natural wishes and expectations, 
^i. e., to our ideal of a state of perfection,) is evident from the 
pleasure we feel when family relations preserve their harmony, 
and the father becomes to the son a master and a model — a reve- 
rend teacher and a favourite study. Such a happy state of 
things makes the biography before us very attractive. It is in 
5* (53) 



54 PAPERS ON LITERATURE AND ART. 

itself good, though, probably not as interesting or impressive as 
one who could have painted the subject from somewhat a greater 
distance might have made it. The affections of the writer are 
nowhere obtruded upon us. The feeling shown towards his 
amiable and accomplished father is every where reverential and 
tender, nowhere blind or exaggerated. Sir James is always, 
when possible, permitted to speak for himself; and we are not 
teased by attempts to heighten or alter the natural effect of his 
thoughts and opinions. The impressions he produced on different 
minds are given us unmutilated and unqualified. The youthful 
errors, and the one great defect which had power to prevent so 
rich a piece of creation from blooming into all that love or admi- 
ration could have wished, are neither dissembled nor excused. 
Perhaps here Mr. Mackintosh kept in mind his father's admirable 
remark upon Mrs. Opie's Memoir of her husband. " One pas- 
sage I object to ; where she makes an excuse for not exposing his 
faults. She ought either to have been absolutely silent, or, with 
an intrepid confidence in the character of her husband, to have 
stated faults, which she was sure would not have been dust in 
the balance, placed in the scale opposite to his merits." 

Indeed, the defect here was not to be hidden, since it sapped 
the noblest undertakings and baffled the highest aspirations of the 
gentle and generous critic ; but we might have been annoyed by 
awkward attempts to gloss it over, which would have prevented 
our enjoying in full confidence the record of so many virtues 
and remarkable attainments. To these discerning and calm jus- 
tice is done ; more, as the son and friend felt, was not needed. 
And, upon the whole, if filial delicacy has prevented the Life of 
Sir J. M. from making so brilliant and entertaining a book as it 
might be in the hands of one who felt at liberty to analyze more 
deeply and eulogize more eloquently, our knowledge of it as his- 
tory is probably more correct, and of greater permanent value. 

The recollections of childhood are scanty. We see, indeed 



LIFE OP SIR JAMES MACKINTOSH. 55 

an extraordinary boy, but get little light as to what helped to 
make him what he was. Generally we know, that if there be 
anything of talent in a boy, a Scotch mist has wonderful powei 
to draw it out. Add to this, that he lived much in solitude, and 
on the banks of a beautiful lake. To such means of intellectual 
developement many a Swiss and many a Highlander has done no 
visible, or at least so far as this world knoweth, no immortal hon- 
our ; but there be hardy striplings, who expand their energies in 
chasing the deer and the chamois, and act out the impulse, poetic 
or otherwise, as it rises ; while the little Jamie was fed on books, 
and taught how thought and feeling may be hoarded and put out 
at interest while he had plenty of time and means for hoarding. 
Yet is the precocity natural to a boy of genius wher his atten- 
tion is so little dissipated, and the sphere of exercising his childish 
energies so limited, very undesirable. For precocity some great 
price is always demanded sooner or later in life. Nature intended 
the years of childhood to be spent in perceiving and playing, not 
in reflecting and acting ; and when her processes are hurried or 
disturbed, she is sure to exact a penalty. Bacon paid by moral 
perversion for his premature intellectual developement. Mozart 
gave half a life for a first half all science and soul. Mackintosh 
brought out so wonderfully his powers of acquisition at the ex- 
pense of those of creation, to say nothing of the usual fine of 
delicate health. How much he lived out of books we know not, 
but he tells us of little else. The details of his best plaything 
— the boy-club at which he exercised himself, as the every-day 
boy rides the great horse, or the young Indian tries his father's 
bow, are interesting. At an early age he went to Aberdeen, 
where he came under the instruction of a Dr. Dunbar, who, if 
he did not impart much positive knowledge, seems to have been 
successful in breathing into his pupil that strong desire of know 
ing and doing, which is of more value than any thing one can re- 
ceive from another. Here too, was he happy in that friendship 



56 PAPERS ON LITERATURE AND ART. 

with Robert Hall, which probably did more for his mind, than all 
the teachings of all his youthful years. They were eighteen 
and nineteen years of age, an age when the mind is hoping 
every thing — fearing nothing ; a time when perfect freedom of 
intercourse is possible ; for then no community of interests is ex- 
acted between two noble natures, except that of aims which may 
be carried forward into infinity. How beautiful, how purely in- 
tellectual, this friendship was, may be best felt from reading the 
two letters Sir James wrote many years after to Robert Hall 
upon his recovery from derangement. In these exquisite letters, 
a subject which would seem almost too delicate for an angel's 
touch, is in nowise profaned ; and the most elevated, as well as 
the most consoling view is taken with the confidence of one who 
had seen into the very depths of Hall's nature. Tnere is no 
pity, no flattery — no ill-advised application of the wise counsels 
of calm hours and untried spirits, but that noble and sincere 
faith, which might have created beneath the ribs of death what 
it expected to find there. The trust of one who had tried the 
kernel, and knew that the tree was an oak ; and, though shat- 
tered by lightning, could not lose its royalty of nature. 

From the scene of metaphysical and religious discussions, 
which gave such a bias to his mind and character, Sir James 
went to lead a life of great animal and mental excitement in 
Edinburgh. Here he first tourneyed with the world, and came 
off from the lists, not inglorious if not altogether victorious. Al- 
ready he had loved once ; but this seems, like his after-attach- 
ments, not to have been very deep ; and as he ingenuously con- 
fesses, declined on his side, without any particular reason, except, 
indeed, that his character was, at that time growing ; which is 
reason enough. A man so intellectual, so versatile, and so 
easily moved as he, was formed to enjoy and need society, both 
in and out of the domestic circle, but not to be the slave of the 
Passions, nor yet their master. Perhaps it may be doubted 



HFfii OF SIR JAMES MACKINTOSH. 57 

whether any man can become the master of the passions of 
others without having some time gone through the apprenticeship, 
i. e. the slavery to his own. Sir James never had power to elec- 
trify at will a large body of men — he had not stored up within 
the dangerous materials for the " lightning of the mind" — and 
every way there was more of the Apollo than the Jupiter 
about him. 

At Edinburgh he made many friends, acquired and evaporated 
many prejudices, learned much, and talked more. Here was 
confirmed that love, which, degenerating into a need, of society, 
took from him the power of bearing the seclusion and solitary 
effort, which would have enabled him to win permanent glory 
and confer permanent benefits. 

Then came his London life, rather a bright page, but of not 
more happy portent. Compare it with the London experiment of 
the poet Crabbe, made known to us not long since by the pen of 
his son. Do we not see here a comment on the hackneyed text, 
" Sweet are the uses of adversity," and find reason to admire the 
impartiality always in the long run to be observed in the distribu- 
tion of human lots ? To view the thing superficially, Crabbe, 
ill-educated, seemingly fit for no sphere, certainly unable to find 
any for which he thought himself fit, labouring on poetry, which 
the most thinking public (of booksellers) would not buy, reduced 
to his last fourpence, and apparently for ever separated from his 
Myra, was a less prosperous person than Mackintosh, on whose wit 
and learning so many brilliant circles daily feasted, whose 
budding genius mature statesmen delighted to honour, the husband 
of that excellent woman he has so beautifully described, and the 
not unsuccessful antagonist of that Burke on whom Crabbe had 
been a dependant. Yet look more deeply into the matter, and 
you see Crabbe ripening energy of purpose, and power of patient 
endurance, into an even heroic strength ; nor is there anywhere 
a finer monument of the dignity to which the human soul can 



58 PAPERS ON LITERATURE AND ART. 

rise independent of circumstances, than the letter which he wrote 
to Burke from that fit of depression which could never become 
abject ; a letter alike honourable to the writer and him to whorr 
it was addressed. In that trial, Crabbe, not found wanting, tested 
his powers to bear and to act — he ascertained what he would do, 
and it was done — Mackintosh, squandering at every step the 
treasures.which he had never been forced to count, divided in his 
wishes, imperfect in his efforts, wanting to himself, though so 
far above the herd, might well have been glad to leave his 
flowery paths for those through which Crabbe was led over a 
stony soil, and beneath a parching sun, but still — upwards. 
Had it been so, what a noble work might we have had instead 
of the Vindicise Gallicse! A bright star was that, but we might 
have had a sun. 

Yet had the publication of the Vindicise been followed by Sir 
James's getting into parliament, and becoming the English great 
man, the mover of the day, the minister to the hour, it had been 
much ; and we should not have been forward to express regret, 
even though we might deem his natural vocation to be for litera- 
ture and philosophy. Freedom has so often been obliged to re- 
treat into garrison in England, that the honor of being one of her 
sentinels there is sufficient for a life. But here again a broken 
thread — a beginning not followed up. He goes to India, and 
after that he was always to act with divided soul, and his life 
could be nothing better than a fragment ; a splendid fragment 
indeed, but one on which it is impossible to look without sorrow. 
ful thoughts of the whole that might have been erected from 
materials such as centuries may not again bring together. 

The mind of man acknowledges two classes of benefactors — ■ 
those who suggest thoughts and plans, and those who develope 
and fit for use those already suggested. We are more ready to 
be grateful to the latter, whose labours are more easily appre- 
ciated by their contemporaries j while the other, smaller class, 



LIFE OF SIR JAMES MACKINTOSH. 59 

really comprises intellects of the higher order, gifted with a 
rapidity and fertility of conception too great to be wholly brought 
out in the compass of a short human life. As their heirs and 
pupils bring into use more and more of the wealth they bequeathed 
to the world in unwrought ore, they are elevated by posterity 
from the rank which their own day assigned them of visionaries 
and obscure thinkers, to be revered almost as the Demigods of 
literature and science. Notwithstanding the hours of gloom and 
bitter tears by which such lives are defaced, they are happy to a 
degree, which those who are born to minister to the moment can 
never comprehend. For theirs are hours of " deep and uncom- 
municable joy," hours when the oracle within boldly predicts the 
time when that which is divine in them, and which they now to 
all appearance are breathing out in vain, shall become needful 
as vital air to myriads of immortal spirit. 

But Sir James Mackintosh belonged strictly to neither of these 
classes. Much he learned — thought much — collected much 
treasure ; but the greater part of it was buried with him. Many 
a prize, hung on high in the intellectual firmament, he could dis- 
cern with eyes carefully purged from the films of ignorance and 
grossness ; he could discern the steps even by which he might 
have mounted to the possession of any one which he had reso- 
lutely chosen and perseveringly sought — but this he did not. 
And though many a pillar and many a stone remain to tell where 
he dwelt and how he strove, we seek in vain for the temple of 
perfect workmanship with which Nature meant so skilful an 
architect should have adorned her Earth. 

Sir James was an excellent man ; a man of many thoughts — 
of varied knowledge — of liberal views — almost a great man ; but 
he did not become a great man, when he might by more earnest- 
ness of parpose ; he knew this, and could not be happy. This 
want of earnestness of purpose, which prevented the goodly tree 



60 PAPERS ON LITERATURE AND ART. 

from bearing goodly fruit in due season, may be attributed in a 
great measure to these two causes. 

First, the want of systematic training in early life. Much has 
been well-written and much ill-spoken to prove that minds of 
great native energy will help themselves, that the best attainments 
are made from inward impulse, and that outward discipline ia 
likely to impair both grace and strength. Here is some truth — 
more error. Native energy will effect wonders, unaided by school 
or college. The best attainments are made from inward impulse, 
but it does not follow that outward discipline of any liberality 
will impair grace or strength ; and it is impossible for any mind 
fully and harmoniously to ascertain its own wants, without being 
made to resound from some strong outward pressure. Crabbe 
helped himself, and formed his peculiar faculties to great perfec- 
tion ; but Coleridge was well tasked — and not without much hard 
work could Southey become as " erudite as natural." The 
flower of Byron's genius expanded with little care of the garden- 
er ; but the greatest observer, the deepest thinker, and as the 
greatest artist, necessarily the warmest admirer of Nature of our 
time (we refer to Goethe), grew into grace and strength beneath 
the rules and systems of a disciplinarian father. Genius willMve 
and thrive without training, but it does not the less reward the 
watering-pot and pruning-knife. Let the mind take its own 
course, and it is apt to fix too exclusively on a pursuit or set of 
pursuits to which it will devote itself till there is not strength for 
others, till the mind stands in the relation to a well-balanced 
mind, that the body of the blacksmith does to that of the gladiator. 
We are not in favor of a stiff, artificial balance of character, of 
learning by the hour, and dividing the attention by rule and line ; 
but the young should be so variously called out and disciplined, 
that they may be sure that it is a genuine vocation, and not an 
accidental bias, which decides the course on reaching maturity. 

Sir James Mackintosh read and talked through his early 



LIFE OF SIR JAMES MACKINTOSH. Q1 

youth ; had he been induced to reproduce in writing and bear 
more severe mental drudgery, great deeds would have been easy 
to him in after-days. He acquired such a habit of receiving 
from books and reproducing only a small part of what he 
received, and this, too, in slight and daily efforts, that the stimu- 
lus of others' thoughts became necessary for his comfort to an 
enervating degree. Books cease to be food, and become no bet- 
ter than cigars, or gin and water, when indulged in to excess after 
a certain period. It is distressing to see half the hours of such a 
man as Sir James Mackintosh for so many years consumed in 
reading of a desultory, though always interesting nature. We 
remember no diary that could in this respect vie with his, unless 
it be Lady M. W. Montague's after she retired from the world. 
For her it was very suitable, but we cannot excuse it in him, even 
beneath the burning Indian sky. We cannot help wishing he 
had been provided, as Mirabeau always was, with a literary 
taster and crammer ; or that, at least, he might have felt that a 
man who means to think and write a great deal, must, after six 
and twenty, learn to read with his fingers. But nothing can be 
more luxuriously indolent than his style of reading. Reading 
aloud too, every evening, was not the thing for a man whom 
Nature had provided with so many tasks. That his apprentice- 
ship had not been sufficiently severe, he himself felt and some- 
times laments. However, the copious journals of his reading are 
most entertaining, full of penetrating remarks and delicate criti- 
cal touches. What his friend Lord Jeffrey mentions, " firmness 
of mind," is remarkable here. Here, carelessly dashed off in a 
diary, are the best criticisms on Madame de Stael that we have 
ever seen. She had that stimulating kind of talent which it is 
hardly possible for any one to criticise calmly who has felt its 
influence. And, as her pictures of life are such as to excite our 
hidden sympathies, a very detailed criticism upon her resembles 
a personal confession, while she is that sort of writer whom it is 



62 PAPERS ON LITERATURE AND ART. 

very easy to praise or blame in general terms. Sir James has 
seized the effect produced upon her works by the difference be- 
tween her ideal and real character. This is one great secret of 
her eloquence ; to this mournful tone, which vibrates through all 
her brilliancy, most hearts respond without liking to own it. 
Here Sir James drew near to he' ; his feminine refinement of 
thought enabled him to appreciate hers, while a less impassioned 
temperament enabled him coolly to criticise her dazzling intui 
tions. 

How much is comprehended in these few words upon Priestley. 

" I have just read Priestley's Life of himself. It is an honest, plain, and 
somewhat dry account of a well-spent life. But I never read such a narrative, 
however written, without feeling my mind softened and bettered, at least for a 
time. Priestley was a good man, though his life was too busy to leave him leisure 
for that refinement and ardor of moral sentiment, which have been felt by men of 
*ess blameless life. Frankness and disinterestedness in the avowal of his opinion 
were his point of honor. In other respects his morality was more useful than 
brilliant. But the virtue of the sentimental moralist is so over-precarious and 
ostentatious, that he can seldom be entitled to look down with contempt on the 
steady, though homely morals of the household." 

And those upon Mirabeau, to whom it is so very difficult for a 
good man to do justice. There is something of even Socratic 
beauty in the following : 

<: The letters of this extraordinary man are all full of the highest flights of 
virtuous sentiment, amidst the grossest obscenities and the constant violation of 
the most sacred duties. Yet these declarations of sentiment were not insincere. 
They were only useless, and perhaps pernicious, as they concealed from him 
that depravity which he could scarcely otherwise have endured. 

" A fair recital of his conduct must always have the air of invective. Yet his 
mind had originally grand capabilities. It had many irregular sketches of high 
virtue, and he must have had many moments of the noblest moral enthusiasm." 

We say Socratic beauty, for we know no one since the Greek, 
who seems to have so great a love for the beautiful in human na- 
ture with such a pity — (a pity how unlike the blindness of weak 



LIFE OF SIR JAMES MACKINTOSH. 63 

charity or hypocritical tenderness) — for the odious traits which 
are sometimes so closely allied with it. Sir James, allowing for 
all that was perverting in Mirabeau's position acting upon elements 
so fraught with good and ill, saw him as he was, no demon, but 
a miserable man become savage and diseased from circum- 
stances. 

We should like to enrich this article with the highly finished 
miniature pictures of Fox, Windham, and Francis Xavier ; but 
here is little room, and we will content ourselves with these 
striking remarks upon the Hindoo character. 

"The Rajpoots are the representatives of Hinduism. In them are seen all 
the qualities of the Hindu race, unmitigated by foreign mixture, exerted with 
their original energy, and displayed in the strongest light. They exhibit the 
genuine form of a Hindu community, formed of the most discordant materials, 
and combining the most extraordinary contrasts of moral nature, unconquerable 
adherence to native opinions and usages, with servile submission to any foreign 
yoke or unbelieving priesthood, ready to suffer martyrdom for the most petty 
observances of their professed faith; a superstition which inspires the resolution 
to inflict or to suffer the most atrocious barbarities, without cultivating any 
natural sentiment or enforcing any social duty ; all the stages in the progress 
of society brought together in one nation, from some abject castes more brutal 
than the savages of New Zealand, to the polish of manners and refinement 
of character conspicuous in the upper ranks ; attachment to kindred and to 
home, with no friendship, and no love of country ; good temper and gentle dis- 
position ; little active cruelty, except when stimulated by superstition ; but little 
sensibility, little compassion, scarcely any disposition to relieve suffering or re- 
lieve wrong done to themselves or others. Timidity, with its natural attendants, 
falsehood and meanness, in the ordinary relations of human life, joined with a 
capability of becoming excited to courage in the field, to military enthusiasm, to 
heroic self-devotion. Abstemiousness in some respects more rigorous than that 
of a western hermit, in a life of intoxication ; austerities and self-tortures 
almost incredible, practised by those who otherwise wallow in gross sensuality, 
childish levity, barefaced falsehood, no faith, no constancy, no shame, no belief 
in the existence of justice." 

But to return. Sir James's uncommon talents for conversation 
proved no less detrimental to his glory as an author or as 8 



64 PAPERS ON LITERATURE AND ART. 

statesman, than the want of early discipline. Evanescent as are 
the triumphs, unsatisfactory as are the results of this sort of 
power, they are too intoxicating to be despised by any but minds 
of the greatest strength. Madame de Stael remarks : " Say what 
you will, men of genius must naturally be good talkers ; the full 
mind delights to vent itself in every way." Undoubtedly the 
great author, whether of plans or books, will not be likely to say 
uninteresting things ; and unless early habits of seclusion have 
deprived him of readiness, and made it difficult for him to come 
near other minds in the usual ways, he will probably talk well. 
Put the most eloquent talkers cannot always converse even 
pleasingly ; of this Madame de Stael herself was a striking in- 
stance. To take up a subject and harangue upon it, as was her 
wont, requires the same habits of mind with writing ; to converse, 
as could Sir J. Mackintosh, supposes habits quite dissimilar. 
The ready tact to apprehend the mood of your companions and 
their capacity for receiving what you can bestow, the skill to 
touch upon a variety of subjects with that lightness, grace, and 
rapidity, which constantly excite and never exhaust the attention, 
the love for sparkling sallies, the playfulness and variety, which 
make a man brilliant and attractive in conversation, are the re- 
verse of the love of method, the earnestness of concentration, 
and the onward march of thought, which are required by the 
higher kinds of writing. The butterfly is no less active than 
the eagle ; his wings of gauze move not less swiftly than those 
stronger pinions, he loses no moment, but visits every flower in 
the garden, and exults in the sunlight which he enriches : mean- 
while the noble, but not more beautiful, winged one is soaring 
steadily upward to contemplate the source of light from the high- 
est fields of ether. Add to this, that writing seems dry work, 
and but a languid way of transmitting thought to one accustomed 
to the electric excitement of personal intercourse ; as on the 
other hand, conversation is generally too aimless and superficiaJ 



' 



LIFE OF SIR JAMES MACKINTOSH. 65 

to suit one, whose mental training has been severe and indepen 
dent of immediate action from other intellects. 

Every kind of power is admirable, and indefinitely useful ; 
if a man be born to talk, and can be satisfied to bring out his 
thoughts in conversation only or chiefly, let him. Sir James did 
so much in this way, stimulated so many young, enchanted and 
refined so many mature minds, blessed daily so many warm 
hearts ; as a husband and a father, he appears so amiable, prob- 
ably so much more so than he would if his ambition had glowed 
with greater intensity ; what he did write, was so excellent, and 
so calculated to promote the best kind of culture, that if he could 
have been satisfied, we might ; but he could not ; we find him- 
self in his journals perpetually lamenting that his life was one of 
" projects and inactivity." For even achievements like his will 
seem mere idleness to one who has the capacity of achieving and 
doing so much more. Man can never come up to his ideal stand- 
ard ; it is the nature of the immortal spirit to raise that standard 
higher and higher as it goes from strength to strength, still upward 
and onward. Accordingly the wisest and greatest men are ever 
the most modest. Yet he who feels that if he is not what he 
would, he " has done what he could," is not without a serene 
self-complacency, (how remote from self-sufficiency !) the want 
of which embittered Sir James's latter years. Four great tasks 
presented themselves to him in the course of his life, which, per- 
haps, no man was better able to have performed. Nature seems 
to have intended him for a philosopher ; since, to singular deli- 
cacy and precision of observation, he added such a tendency to 
generalization. In metaphysics he would have explored far, 
and his reports would have claimed our confidence ; since his 
candour and love of truth would have made it impossible for him 
to become the slave of system. He himself, and those who knew 
him best, believed this to be his forte. Had he left this aside, 
and devoted himself exclusively to politics, he would have been, 
6* 



66 PAPERS ON LITERATURE AND ART. 

if not of the first class of statesmen, one of the first in the second 
class. 

He went to India, and that large piece taken out of the best 
part of his life made this also impossible. Had he then devoted 
his leisure hours to researches on Indian antiquities, how much 
might he have done in that vast field, where so small a portion of 
the harvest is yet gathered in. Nobody was better qualified to dis- 
regard the common prejudices with respect to the representations 
of the Hindoos, to find a clue which should guide him through 
the mighty maze of Indian theolog5 r , and remove the world of 
rubbish, beneath which forms radiant in truth and beauty lie 
concealed. His fondness for the history of opinion would here 
have had full scope, and he might have cast a blaze of light 
upon a most interesting portion of the annals of mankind. This 
" fair occasion," too, he let slip, and returned to Europe, broken 
in health and spirits, and weakened, as any man must be, who 
has passed so many years in occupations which called for only so 
small a portion of his powers. 

• Did he then fix his attention on that other noble aim which 
rose before him, and labour to become for ever illustrious as 
the historian of his country ? No ! Man may escape from every 
foe and every difficulty, except what are within — himself. Sir 
James, as formerly, worked with a divided heart and will ; and 
Fame substituted a meaner coronal for the amaranthine wreath 
she had destined for his brow. Greatness was not thrust upon him 
and he wanted earnestness of purpose to achieve it for himself. 

Let us now turn from the sorrowful contemplation of his one 
fault, to the many endearing or splendid qualities intimately con- 
nected with, or possibly fostered by this very fault. For so it is, 
" what makes our virtues thrive openly, will also, if we be not 
watchful, make our faults thrive in secret ;" and vice versa. 
Let us admire his varied knowledge, his refinement of thought, 
which was such that only his truly philosophic turn could have 



LIFE OF SIR JAMES MACKINTOSH. 67 

pi evented it from degenerating into sophistry ; his devotion, even 
more tender than enthusiastic, to the highest interests of hu- 
manity ; that beautiful fairness of mind, in which he was un- 
equalled, a fairness which evidenced equal modesty, generosity, 
and pure attachment to truth ; a fairness which made him more 
sensible to every one's merits, and more ready to perceive the ex- 
cuses for every one's defects than his own ; a fairness not to be 
disturbed by party prejudice or personal injury ; a fairness in 
which nobody, except Sir W. Scott, who was never deeply tried 
as he was, can compare with him. In what other journal shall 
we find an entry like the following, the sincerity of which no 
one can doubt : — 

" has, I think, a distaste for me, which I believe to be natural to the 

family. I think the worse of nobody for such a feeling ; indeed, I often feel a 
distaste for myself; I am sure I should not esteem my own character in another 
person. It is more likely that I should have disrespectable or disagreeable 
qualities than that should have an unreasonable antipathy." 

The letter to Mr. Sharpe on the changes in his own opinions, 
exhibits this trait to a remarkable degree. 

It has been said that had he been less ready to confess his own 
mistakes of judgment, and less careful to respect the intentions 
of others, more arrogant in his pretensions and less gentle to- 
wards his opponents, he would have enjoyed greater influence, 
and been saved from many slights and disappointments. Here, 
at least, is no room for regret. 

We have not, of course, attempted any thing like a compre- 
hensive criticism upon the Life. The range of Sir James's con- 
nexions and pursuits being so wide, and the history of his mind 
being identical with that of the great political movement of his 
day, a volume would not give more than verge enough for all the 
thoughts it naturally suggests. If these few reflections excite 
the attention of some readers and are acceptable to others, as 
.sympathy, they will attain their legitimate object. 



MODERN BRITISH POETS. 

" Poets — dwell on earth, 
To clothe whate'er the soul admires and loves, 
With language and with numbers." 

Akenside. 

Nine muses were enough for one Greece, and nine poets are 
enough for one country, even in the nineteenth century. And 
these nine are " a sacred nine," who, if not quite equal to 
Shakspeare, Spenser, and Milton, are fairly initiated masters of 
the wand and spell ; and whose least moving incantation should 
have silenced that blasphemer, who dared to say, in the pages of 
Blackwood, that " all men, women, and children, are poets, saving 
only — those who write verses." 

First — There is Campbell — a poet ; simply a poet — no philo- 
sopher. His forte is strong conception, a style free and bold ; 
occasionally a passage is ill-finished, but the lights and shades 
are so happily distributed, the touch so masterly and vigorous, 
with such tact at knowing where to stop, that we must look for 
the faults in order to see them. There is little, if any, origin- 
ality of thought ; no profound meaning ; no esoteric charm, 
which you cannot make your own on a first reading ; yet we 
have all probably read Campbell many times. It is his manner 
which we admire ; and in him we enjoy what most minds enjoy 
most, not new thoughts, new feelings, but recognition of 

" What oft was thought, but ne'er so well expressed." 

Thus, in Campbell's best productions we are satisfied, not 
Stimuli*M. " The Mariners of England" is just what it should 

(68) 



MODERN BRITISH POETS. 69 

be ; — for we find free, deep tones, from the seaman's breast, 
chorded into harmony by an artist happy enough to feel nature — 
wise enough to follow nature. " Lochiel" is what it should be, 
a wild, breezy symphony, from the romantic Highlands. There 
are, in fact, flat lines and tame passages in "Lochiel;" but 1 
should never have discovered them, if I had not chanced to hear 
that noble composition recited by a dull schoolboy. The ideal- 
izing tendency in the reader, stimulated by the poet's real mag- 
netic power, would prevent their being perceived in a solitary 
perusal, and a bright schoolboy would have been sufficiently 
inspired by the general grandeur of the piece ; to have known 
how to sink such lines as 

"Welcome be Cumberland's steed to the shock, 
Let him dash his proud foam like a wave on the rock ;" 

or, 

" Draw, dotard, around thy old, wavering sight;" 

and a few other imperfections in favour of 

"Proud bird of the mountain, thy plume shall be torn," 

and other striking passages. 

As for the sweet tale of " Wyoming," the expression of the 
dying Gertrude's lips is not more " bland, more beautiful," than 
the music of the lay in which she is embalmed. It were difficult 
to read this poem, so holy in its purity and tenderness, so deli- 
ciously soft and soothing in its coloring, without feeling better and 
happier. 

The feeling of Campbell towards women is refined and deep. 
To him they are not angels — not, in the common sense, heroines ; 
but of a " perfect woman nobly planned," he has a better idea 
than most men, or even poets. Witness one of his poems, which 
has never received its meed of fame ; I allude to Theodric. Who 
can be insensible to the charms of Constance, the matron counter- 
part to Gertrude's girlhood ? 



70 PAPERS ON LITERATURE AND ART. 

"To know her well, 
Prolonged, exalted, bound enchantment's spell ; 
' For with affections warm, intense, refined, 

She mixed such calm and holy strength of mind, 
That, like Heaven's image in the smiling brook, 
Celestial peace was pictured in her look ; 
Her's was the brow in trials unperplexed, 
That cheered the sad and tranquillized the vexed} 
She studied not the meanest to eclipse, 
And yet the wisest listened to her lips ; 
She sang not, knew not Music's magic skill, 
But yet her voice had tones that swayed the will." 
****** 

" To paint that being to a grovelling mind 
Were like portraying pictures to the blind. 
'Twas needful even infectiously to feel 
Her temper's fond, and firm, and gladsome zeal, 
To share existence with her, and to gain 
Sparks from her love's electrifying chain, 
Of that pure pride, which, lessening to her breast 
Life's ills, gave all its joys a treble zest, 
Before the mind completely understood 
That. mighty truth — how happy are the good! 
Even when her light forsook him, it bequeathed 
Ennobling sorrow ; and her memory breathed 
A sweetness that survived her living days, 
As odorous scents outlast the censer's blaze. 
Or if a trouble dimmed their golden joy, 
'Twas outward dross and not infused alloy; 
Their home knew but affection's look and speech, 
A little Heaven beyond dissension's reach. 
But midst her kindred there was strife and gall; 
Save one congenial sister, they were all 
Such foils to her bright intellect and grace, 
As if she had engrossed the virtue of her race , 
Her nature strove th' unnatural feuds to heal, 
Her wisdom made the weak to her appeal ; 
And though the wounds she cured were soon unclosed, 
Unwearied still her kindness interposed." 



MODERN BRITISH POETS. 71 

The stanzas addressed to John Kemble I have never heard 
admired to the fulness of my feeling. Can any thing be finer 
than this ? 

" A majesty possessed 
His transport's most impetuous tone; 

And to each passion of his breast 
The graces gave their zone." 



or, 



" Who forgets that white discrowned head, 

Those bursts of reason's half-extinguished glare, 
Those tears upon Cordelia's bosom shed 
In doubt more touching than despair, 
If twas reality he felt 1" 



or. 



" Fair as some classic dome, 

Robust and richly graced, 
Your Kemble's spirit was the home 

Of genius and of taste. — 
Taste like the silent dial's power, 

That, when supernal light is given, 
Can measure inspiration's hour 

And tell its height in Heaven. 
At once ennobled and correct, 

His mind surveyed the tragic page ; 
And what the actor could effect, 

The scholar could presage." 

These stanzas are in Campbell's best style. Had he possessed 
as much lyric flow as force, his odes might have vied with those 
of Collins. But, though soaring upward on a strong pinion, his 
flights are never prolonged, and in this province, which earnest- 
ness and justness of sentiment, simplicity of imagery, and a pic- 
turesque turn in expression, seem to have marked out as his own, 
he is surpassed by Shelley, Coleridge, and Wordsworth, from their 
greater power of continuous self-impulse. 



72 PAPERS ON LITERATURE AND ART. 

I do not know where to class Campbell as a poet. What he 
has done seems to be by snatches, and his poems might have been 
published under the title of " Leisure Hours, or Recreations of a 
Great Man." They seem like fragments, not very heedfully 
stricken off' from the bed of a rich quarry ; for, with all their 
individual finish, there is no trace of a fixed purpose to be dis- 
cerned in them. They appear to be merely occasional effusions, 
like natural popular poetry ; but, as they are written by an ac- 
complished man in these modern days of design and system, we 
are prompted to look for an aim, a prevading purpose. We shall 
not find it. Campbell has given us much delight ; if he has 
not directly stimulated our thoughts, he has done so much to 
refine ■ ur tastes, that we must respectfully tender the poetic 
garland. 

And thou, Anacreon Moore, sweet warbler of Erin ! What 
an ecstasy of sensation must thy poetic life have been ! Certainly 
the dancing of the blood never before inspired so many verses. 
Moore's poetry is to literature, what the compositions of Rossini 
are to music. It is the hey-day of animal existence, embellished 
by a brilliant fancy, and ardent though superficial affections. 
The giddy flush of youthful impulse empurples the most pensive 
strains of his patriotism, throbs in his most delicate touches of 
pathos, and is felt as much in Tara's Halls as in the description 
of the Harem. His muse is light of step and free of air, yet not 
vulgarly free ; she is not a little excited, but it is with quaffing 
the purest and most sparkling champagne. There is no tern- 
perance, no chastened harmony in her grief or in her joy. His 
melodies are metrically perfect ; they absolutely set themselves 
to music, and talk of spring, and the most voluptuous breath of the 
blossom-laden western breeze, and the wildest notes of the just 
returning birds. For his poetic embodying of a particular stage 
of human existence, and his scintillating wit, will Moore chiefly 
be remembered. He has been boon-companion and toast-master 



MODERN BRITISH POETS. 73 

to the youth of his day. This could not last. When he ceased 
to be young, and to warble his own verses, their fascination in a 
great measure disappeared. Many are now not more attractive 
than dead flowers in a close room. Anacreon cannot really 
charm when his hair is gray ; there is a time for all things, and 
the gayest youth loves not the Epicurean old man. Yet he, too, 
is a poet ; and his works will not be suffered to go out of print, 
though they are, even now, little read. Of course his reputation 
as a prose writer is another matter, and apart from our present 
purpose. 

The poetry of Walter Scott has been superseded by his pros«, 
yet it fills no unimportant niche in the literary history of the 
last half century, and may be read, at least once in life, with 
great pleasure. " Marmion," " The Lay of the Last Minstrel," 
&c, cannot, indeed, be companions of those Sabbath hours of 
which the weariest, dreariest life need not be destitute, for their 
bearing is not upon the true life of man, his immortal life. Cole- 
ridge felt this so deeply, that in a lately published work (Letters, 
Conversations, &c, of S. T. Coleridge) he is recorded to have 
said, " not twenty lines of Scott's poetry will ever reach pos- 
terity ; it has relation to nothing." This is altogether too harsh, 
and proves that the philosopher is subject to narrowness and par- 
tial views, from his peculiar mode of looking at an object, equally 
with the mere man of taste. These poems are chiefly remark- 
able for presenting pictures of particular epochs, and, considered 
in that light, truly admirable. Much poetry has come down to 
us, thus far, whose interest is almost exclusively of the same na- 
ture ; in which, at least, moral conflict does not constitute the 
prominent interest. 

To one who has read Scott's novels first, and looks in his 

poems for the same dramatic interest, the rich humor, the tragic 

force, the highly wrought yet flowing dialogue, and the countless 

minutiae in the finish of character, they must bring disappoint- 

7 



74 PAPERS ON LITERATURE AND ART 

ment. For their excellence consists in graphic descriptions of 
architecture and natural scenery, a happy choice of subject, and 
effective grouping of slightly sketched characters, combined with 
steady march and great simplicity of narrative. Here and there 
sentiments are introduced, always just and gracefully worded, 
but without that delicacy of shading, fine and harmonious as 
Nature's workmanship in the rose-leaf, which delights us in his 
prose works. It is, indeed, astonishing that he should lose so 
much by a constraint so lightly worn ; for his facility of versifi- 
cation is wonderful, his numbers seem almost to have coined 
themselves, and you cannot detect any thing like searching 
for a word to tag a verse withal. Yet certain it is, we receive 
no adequate idea of the exuberance and versatility of his genius, 
or his groat knowledge of the human heart, from his poetry. 
H's lore is there as profusely displayed, his good sense and tact 
as admirable, as in his prose works ; and, if only on account of 
their fidelity of description, these poems are invaluable, and must 
always hold a place in English literature. They are interesting 
too, as giving a more complete idea of the character and habits of 
one of our greatest and best men, than his remarkable modesty 
would permit the public to obtain more directly. His modes of life, 
his personal feelings, are no where so detailed, as in the epistles 
perfixed to the cantos of Marmion. These bring us close to his 
side, and leading us with him through the rural and romantic 
scenes he loved, talk with us by the way of all the rich asso- 
ciations of which he was master. His dogs are with him ; he 
surveys these dumb friends with the eye of a sportsman and a 
philosopher, and omits nothing in the description of them which 
could interest either. An old castle frowns upon the road ; he 
bids its story live before you with all the animation of a drama 
and the fidelity of a chronicle. Are topics of the day introduced ? 
He states his opinions with firmness and composure, expresses 
his admiration with energy, and, where he dissents from those he 



MODERN BRITISH POETS. 75 

addresses, does so with unaffected candor and cordial benignity. 
Good and great man ! More and more imposing as nearer seen ; 
thou art like that product of a superhuman intellect, that stately 
temple, which rears its head in the clouds, yet must be studied 
through and through, for months and years, to be appreciated in 
all its grandeur. 

Nothing surprises me more in Scott's poetry, than that a per. 
son of so strong imagination should see every thing so in detail 
as he does. Nothing interferes with his faculty of observation. 
No minor part is sacrificed to give effect to the whole ; no pecu- 
liar light cast on the picture : you only see through a wonder- 
fully far-seeing and accurately observing pair of eyes, and all 
this when he has so decided a taste for the picturesque. Take, 
as a specimen, the opening description in Marmion. 

THE CASTLE. 

" Day set on Norham's castled steep, 
And Tweed's fair river, broad and deep, 
• And Cheviot's mountains lone ; 
The battled towers, the donjon keep, 
The loophole grates, where captives weep, 
The flanking walls that round it sweep, 

In yellow lustre shone ; — 
The warriors on the turrets high, 
Moving athwart the evening sky, 

Seemed forms of giant height ; 
Their armor, as it caught the rays, 
Flashed back again the western blaze, 

In lines of dazzling light. 
St. George's banner, broad and gay, 
Now faded, as the fading ray 

Less bright, and less, was flung ; 
The evening gale had scarce the power 
To wave it on the donjon tower, 

So heavily it hung. 



76 PAPERS ON LITERATURE AND ART. 

The scouts had parted on their search. 

The castle gates were barred, 
Above the gloomy portal arch, 
Timing his footsteps to a march, 

The warden kept his guard, 
Low humming, as he passed along, 
Some ancient border gathering song." 

How picturesque, yet how minute ! Not even Wordsworth, de- 
voted as he is to nature, and to visible as well as invisible truth, 
can compare with Scott in fidelity of description. Not even 
Crabbe, that least imaginative of poets, can compare with him 
for accuracy of touch and truth of colouring. Scott's faculties 
being nicely balanced, never disturbed one another ; we per- 
ceive this even more distinctly in his poetry than in his prose, 
perhaps because less excited while reading it. 

I have said that Crabbe was the least imaginative of poets. 
He has no imagination in the commonly received sense of the 
term ; there is nothing of creation in his works ; nay, I dare af- 
firm, in opposition to that refined critic, Sir James Mackintosh, 
that there was no touch of an idealizing tendency in his mind ; 
yet he is a poet ; he is so through his calm but deep and steady 
sympathy with all that is human ; he is so by his distinguished 
power of observation ; he is so by his graphic skill. No litera- 
ture boasts an author more individual than Crabbe. He is 
unique. Moore described him well. 

" Grand from the truth that reigns o'er all, 
The unshrinking truth that lets her light 
Through life's low, dark, interior fall, 
Opening the whole severely bright. 
Yet softening, as she frowns along, 
O'er scenes which angels weep to see, 
Where truth herself half veils the wrong 
In pity of the misery." 

I could never enter into the state of a mind which could sup. 



MODERN BRITISH POETS. 77 

port viewing life and human nature as Crabbe's did, softened by 
no cool shadow, gladdened by no rose-light. I wish Sir Walter 
Scott, when expressing his admiration for the poetry of Crabbe, 
had told us Tnore distinctly the nature of the impressions he re- 
ceived from it. Sir Walter, while he observes with equal accu- 
racy, is sure to detect something comic or something lovely, some 
pretty dalliance of light and shade in the " low, dark interior" 
of the most outwardly desolate hovel. Cowper saw the follies 
and vices of mankind as clearly, but his Christian love is an ever 
softly-murmuring under-current, which relieves the rude sounds 
of the upper world. Crabbe in his view of the human mind 
may be compared with Cowper or Scott, as the anatomist, in his 
view of the human form, may be compared with the painter or 
sculptor. Unshrinking, he tears apart that glorious fabric which 
has been called " the crown of creation ;" he sees its beauty and 
its strength with calm approval, its weaknesses, its liability to 
disease, with stern pity or cold indignation. His nicely dissected 
or undraped virtues are scarcely more attractive than vices, and, 
with profound knowledge of the passions, not one ray of passion- 
ate enthusiasm casts a glow over the dramatic recitative of his 
poems. 

Crabbe has the true spirit of the man of science ; he seeks 
truth alone, content to take all parts of God's creations as they 
are, if he may but get a distinct idea of the laws which govern 
them. He sees human nature as only a human being could see 
it, but he describes it like a spirit which has never known human 
longings ; yet in no unfriendly temper — far from it ; but with a 
strange bleak fidelity, unbiassed either by impatience or tender, 
ness. 

The poor and humble ow -i him much, for he has made them 

known to the upper classes, not as they ought to be, but as they 

really are ; and in so doing, in distinctly portraying the evils of 

their condition, he has opened the way to amelioration. He is 

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78 PAPERS ON LITERATURE AND ART. 

the poet of the lower classes, though probably rather valuafre to 
them as an interpreter than agreeable as a household friend. 
They like something more stimulating, they would prefer gin or 
rum to lemonade. Indeed, that class of readers rarely like to 
find themselves in print ; they want something romantic, some- 
thing which takes them out of their sphere ; and high sounding 
words, such as they are not in the habit of using, have peculiar 
charms for them. That is a high stage of culture in which sim- 
plicity is appreciated. 

The same cold tints pervade Crabbe's descriptions of natural 
soenery. We can conceive that his eye was educated at 4he 
sea-side. An east-wind blows, his colours are sharp and de- 
cided, and the glitter which falls upon land and wave has no 
warmth. • 

It is difficult to do Crabbe justice, both because the subject is 
so large a one, and because tempted to discuss it rather in admi- 
ration than in love. 

I turn to one whom I love still more than I admire ; the gen- 
tle, the gifted, the ill-fated Shelley. 

Let not prejudice deny him a place among the great ones of 
the day. The youth of Shelley was unfortunate. He com- 
mitted many errors ; what else could be expected from one so 
precocious ? No one begins life so early who is not at some 
period forced to retrace his steps, and those precepts which are 
learned so happily from a mother's lips, must be paid for by the 
heart's best blood when bought from the stern teacher, Experi- 
ence. Poor Shelley ! Thou wert the warmest of philanthro- 
pists, yet doomed to live at variance with thy country and thy 
time. Full of the spirit of genuine Christianity, yet ranking thy- 
self among unbelievers, because in early life thou hadst been 
bewildered by seeing it perverted, sinking beneath those precious 
gifts which should have made a world thine own, intoxicated with 
thy lyric enthusiasm and thick-coming fancies, adoring Nature 






MODERN BRITISH POETS. 79 

as a goddess, yet misinterpreting her oracles, cut off from life 
just as thou wert beginning to read it aright ; O, most musical, 
most melancholy singer ; who that has a soul to feel genius, a 
heart to grieve over misguided nobleness, can forbear watering 
the profuse blossoms of thy too early closed spring with tears of 
sympathy, of love, and (if we may dare it for one so superior in 
intellect) of pity ? 

Although the struggles of Shelley's mind destroyed that se- 
renity of tone which is essential to the finest poetry, and his ten- 
derness has not always that elevation of hope which should 
hallow it ; although in no one of his productions is there sufficient 
unity of purpose and regulation of parts to entitle it to unlimited 
admiration, yet they all abound with passages of infinite beauty, 
and in two particulars, he surpasses any poet of the day. 

First, in fertility of Fancy. Here his riches, from want of 
arrangement, sometimes fail to give pleasure, yet we cannot but 
perceive that they are priceless riches. In this respect parts of 
his " Adonais," " Marianne's Dream," and " Medusa," are not 
to be excelled, except in Shakspeare. 

Second, in sympathy with Nature. To her lightest tones his 
being gave an echo ; truly she spoke to him, and it is this which 
gives unequalled melody to his versification ; I say unequalled, 
for I do not think either Moore or Coleridge can here vie with 
him, though each is in his way a master of the lyre. The rush, 
the flow, the delicacy of vibration, in Shelley's verse, can only 
be paralleled by the waterfall, the rivulet, the notes of the bird 
and of the insect world. This is a sort of excellence not fre- 
quently to be expected now, when men listen less zealously than 
of old to the mystic whispers of Nature ; when little is under- 
stood that is not told in set phrases, and when even poets write 
more frequently in curtained and carpeted rooms, than " among 
thickets of odoriferous blossoming trees and flowery glades," as 
Shelley did. 



80 PAPERS ON LITERATURE AND ART. 

It were " a curious piece of work enough," to run a parallel 
between the Skylark of Shelley and that of Wordsworth, and thus 
illustrate mental processes so similar in dissimilitude. The mood 
of mind, the ideas, are not unlike in the two. Hear Words- 
worth. 

" Up with me, up with me, into the clouds" etc. 

" Lift me, guide me, till I find 

The spot which seems so to thy mind, 
I have walked through wildernesses dreary, 

And to-day my heart is weary, 
Had I now the wings of a Fairy 

Up to thee would I fly ; 
There is madness about thee, and joy divine 

In that song of thine : 

Joyous as morning, thou art laughing and scorning; 

And though little troubled with sloth, 
Drunken Lark, thou would'st be loth 

To be such a traveller as I ! 

Happy, happy liver, 
With a soul as strong as a mountain river, 
Pouring out praise to the Almighty Giver, 

Joy and jollity be with us both." 

Hear Shelley. 

Hail to thee, blithe spirit 1 

Bird thou never wert, 
That from heaven or near it, 
Pourest thy full heart 
In profuse strains of unpremeditated art. 

Higher still and higher, 

From the earth thou springest, 
Like a cloud of fire 
The blue deep thou wingest, 
And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest. 

In the golden lightning 
Of the sunken sun, 



MODERN BRITISH POETS. SI 

O'er which clouds are bright'ning, 
Thou dost float and run 
Like an unbodied joy, whose race is just begun. 

The pale purple even 

Melts around thy flight ; 
Like a star of heaven, 

In the broad daylight, 
Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight. 

Keen as are the arrows 
Of that silver sphere, 
Whose intense lamp narrows 
In the white dawn clear, 
Until we hardly see, we feel that it is there. 

All the earth and air 

With thy voice is loud, 
As, when night is bare, 

From one lonely cloud 
The moon rains out her beams, and heaven is overflowed. 

What thou art we know not; 

What is most like thee 1 
From rainbow clouds there flow not 
Drops so bright to see, 
As from thy presence showers a rain of melody. 

Like a poet hidden 

In the light of thought, 
Singing hymns unbidden, 
Till the world is wrought 
To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not. 

Like a high-born maiden 

In a palace tower, 
Soothing her love-laden 
Soul in secret hour, 
With music sweet as love which overflows her bower. 

Like a glow-worm golden 
In a dell of dew 



S2 PAPERS ON LITERATURE AND ART. 

Scattering unbeholden 
Its aerial hue 
Among the flowers and grass which screen it from the view : 

Like a rose embowered 

In its own green leaves, 
By warm winds deflowered, 
Till the scent it gives 
Makes faint with too much sweet, those heavy-winged thieves. 

Sound of vernal showers 
On the twinkling grass, 
Rain-awakened flowers, 
All that ever was 
Joyous, and clear, and fresh, thy music doth surpass. 

Teach us, sprite or bird, 

What sweet thoughts are thine : 
I have never heard 
Praise of love or wine 
That Danted forth a flood of rapture so divine. 

Chorus hymeneal, 

Or triumphant chaunt, 
Matched with thine would be all 

But an empty vaunt — 
A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want 

What objects are the fountains 

Of thy happy strain 1 
What fields, or waves, or mountains ? 
What shapes of sky or plain 1 
What love of thine own kind ! what ignorance of pain 1 

With thy clear keen joyance 

Languor cannot be ; 
Shadow of annoyance 

Never came near thee: 
Thou lovest ; but ne'er knew love's sad satiety." 

1 cb not like to omit a word of it : but it is taking too much 
room. Should we not say from the samples before us that Shel. 



MODERN BRITISH POETS. 83 

ley, in melody and exuberance cf fancy, was incalculably supe- 
rior to Wordsworth ? But mark their inferences. 
Shelley. 

" Teach me half the gladness 
That thy brain must know, 
Such harmonious madness 
From my lips would flow 
The world should listen, then, as I am listening now." 

Wordsworth. 

" What though my course be rugged and uneven, 
To prickly moors and dusty ways confined, 
Yet, hearing thee and others of thy kind 
As full of gladness and as free of heaven, 
I o'er the earth will go plodding on 
By myself, cheerfully, till the day is done." 

If Wordsworth have superiority then, it consists in greater matu- 
rity and dignity of sentiment. 

While reading Shelley, we must surrender ourselves without 
reserve to the magnetic power of genius ; we must not expect to 
be satisfied, but rest content with being stimulated. He alone 
who can resign his soul in unquestioning simplicity to the des- 
cant of the nightingale or the absorption of the sea-side, may 
hope to receive from the mind of a Shelley the suggestions which, 
to those who know how to receive, he can so liberally impart. 

I cannot leave Shelley without quoting two or three stanzas, 
in which he speaks of himself, and which are full of his peculiar 
beauties and peculiar faults. 

" A frail form, 
A phantom among men, companionless, 
As the last cloud of an expiring storm, 
Whose thunder is its knell ; he, as I guess, 
Had gazed on Nature's naked loveliness 
Actaeon-like, and now he fled astray 



84 PAPERS ON LITERATURE AND ART. 

Witn feeble steps o'er the world's wilderness, 

And his own thoughts, along that rugged way, 

Pursued like raging hounds their father and their prey. 

A pard-like Spirit, beautiful and swift — 

A love in desolation masked ; a power 

Girt round with weakness ; it can scarce uplift 

The weight of the superincumbent hour ; 

It is a dying lamp, a falling shower, 

A breaking billow ; even whilst we speak 

Is it not broken 1 On the withering flower 

The killing sun smiles brightly ; on a cheek 

The life can burn in blood, even while the heart may break. 

His head was bound with pansies overblown, 

And faded violets, white, and pied, and blue; 

And a light spear, topped with a cypress cone, 

Round whose rude shaft dark ivy-tresses grew 

Yet dripping with the forest's noon-day dew, 

Vibrated as the ever-beating heart 

Shook the weak hand that grasped it ; of that crew 

He came the last, neglected and apart ; 

A herd-abandoned deer, struck by the hunter's dart." 

Shelley is no longer " neglected," but I believe his works have 
never been republished in this country, and therefore these ex- 
tracts may be new to most readers. 

Byron naturally in our hall of imagery takes place next his 
friend. Both are noble poetic shapes, both mournful in their 
beauty. The radiant gentleness of Shelley's brow and eye delight 
us, but there are maiks of suffering on that delicate cheek and 
about that sweet mouth ; while a sorrowful indignation curls too 
strongly the lip, lightens too fiercely in the eye, of Byron. 

The unfortunate Byron, {unfortunate I call him, because 
" mind and destiny are but two names for one idea,") has long 
been at rest ; the adoration and the hatred of which he was the 
object, are both dying out. His poems have done their work ; a 
strong personal interest no longer gives them a factitious charm. 



MODERN BRITISH POETS. 85 

and they are beginning to find their proper level. Their value- 
is two-fold — immortal and eternal, as records of thoughts and 
feelings which must be immortally and eternally interesting to 
the mind of individual man ; historical, because they are the 
most complete chronicle of a particular set of impulses in the 
public mind. 

How much of the first sort of value the poems of Byron pos- 
sess, posterity must decide, and the verdict can only be ascer- 
tained by degrees ; I, for one, should say not much. There are 
many beautiful pictures ; infinite wit, but too local and tempo- 
rary in its range to be greatly prized beyond his own time ; lit- 
tle originality ; but much vigor, both of thought and expression ; 
with a deep, even a passionate love of the beautiful and grand. 
1 have often thought, in relation to him, of Wordsworth's descrip- 
tion of 

" A youth to whom was given 
So much of Earth, so much of Heaven, 
And such impetuous blood." 
***** 

" Whatever in those climes he found, 
Irregular in sight or sound, 

Did to his mind impart 
A kindred impulse, seemed allied 
To his own powers, and justified 

The workings of his heart. 

Nor less to feed voluptuous thought, 
The beauteous forms of nature wrought, 

Fair trees and lovely flowers ; 
The breezes their own languor lent, 
The stars had feelings which they sent 

Into those gorgeous bowers. 

And in his worst pursuits, I ween, 
That sometimes there did intervene 
Pure hopes of high intent; 

8 



86 PAPERS ON LITERATURE AND ART. 

For passions linked to forms so fair 
And stately, needs must have their share 
Of noble sentiment." 

It is worthy of remark that Byron's moral perversion never 
paralyzed or obscured his intellectual powers, though it might 
lower their aims. With regard to the plan and style of his 
works, he showed strong good sense and clear judgment. The 
man who indulged such narrowing egotism, such irrational scorn, 
would prune and polish without mercy the stanzas in which he 
uttered them ; and this bewildered Idealist was a very bigot in 
behoof of the commonsensical satirist, the almost peevish Realist 
— Pope . 

Historically these poems are valuable as records of that strange 
malady, that sickness of the soul, which has, in our day, can- 
kered so visibly the rose of youth. It is common to speak of the 
Byronic mood as morbid, false, and foolish ; it is the two former, 
and, if it could be avoided, would most assuredly be the latter 
also. But how can it always be avoided ? Like as a fever 
rages in the blood before we are aware, even so creeps upon the 
soul this disease, offspring of a moral malaria, an influence im- 
palpable till we feel its results within ourselves. Since skilful 
physicians are not always at hand, would it not be better to pu- 
rify the atmosphere than to rail at the patient ? Those who have 
passed through this process seem to have wondrous little pity for 
those who are still struggling with its horrors, and very little 
care to aid them. Yet if it be disease, does it not claim pity, and 
would it not be well to try some other remedy than hard knocks 
for its cure ? What though these sick youths do mourn and la- 
ment somewhat wearisomely, and we feel vexed, on bright May 
mornings, to have them try to persuade us that this beautiful 
green earth, with all its flowers and bird-notes, is no better than a 
Vast hospital ? Consider, it is a relief to the delirious to rave 
audibly, and few, like Professor Teufelsdrock, have strength to 



MODERN BRITISH POETS. 87 

keep a whole Satanic school in the soul from spouting aloud. 
What says the benign Uhland ? 

" If our first lays too piteous have been, 

And you have feared our tears would never cease, 
If we too gloomily life's prose have seen, 

Nor suffered Man nor Mouse to dwell in peace, 
Yet pardon us for our youth's sake. The vine 
Must weep from her crushed grapes the generous wine; 
Not without pain the precious beverage flows ; 
Thus joy and power may yet spring from the woes 
Which have so wearied every long-tasked ear ;" &c. 

There is no getting rid of the epidemic of the season, however 
annoying and useless it may seem. You cannot cough down an 
influenza ; it will cough you down. 

Why young people will just now profess themselves so very 
miserable, for no better reason than that assigned by the poet to 
some " inquiring friends," 

" Nought do I mourn I e'er possessed, 
I grieve that I cannot be blessed ;" 

I have here no room to explain. Enough that there has for some 
time prevailed a sickliness of feeling, whose highest water-mark 
may be found in the writings of Byron. He is the " power man" 
(as the Germans call him, meaning perhaps the power-loom !) 
who has woven into one tissue all those myriad threads, tear- 
stained and dull-gray, with which the malignant spiders of specu- 
lation had filled the machine shop of society, and by so doing has, 
though I admit, unintentionally, conferred benefits upon us incal- 
culable for a long time to come. He has lived through this expe- 
rience for us, and shown us that the natural fruits of indulgence 
in such a temper are dissonance, cynicism, irritability, and all 
uncharitableness. Accordingly, since his time the evil has les- 
sened. With this warning before them, let the young examine 



88 PAPERS ON LITERATURE AND ART. 

that world, which seems at times so deformed by evils and end. 
less contradictions, 

" Control them and subdue, transmute, bereave 
Of their bad influence, and the good receive." 

Grief loses half its charm when we find that others have endured 
the same to a higher degree, and lived through it. Nor do I be- 
lieve that the misanthropy of Byron ever made a single misan- 
thrope ; that his scepticism, so uneasy and sorrowful beneath its 
thin mask of levity, ever made a single sceptic. I know those 
whom it has cured of their yet half-developed errors. I believe 
it has cured thousands. 

As supplying materials for the history of opinion, then, Byron's 
poems will be valuable. And as a poet, I believe posterity will 
assign him no obscure place, though he will probably be classed 
far beneath some who have exercised a less obvious or immediate 
influence on their own times ; beneath the noble Three of whom 
I am yet to speak, whose merits are immortal, because their ten- 
dencies are towards immortality, and all whose influence must 
be a growing influence ; beneath Southey, Coleridge, and Words- 
worth. 

Before proceeding to discuss these last, for which there is hardly 
room in the present paper, 1 would be allowed to conclude this 
division of my subject with a fine passage in which Shelley speaks 
of Byron. I wish to quote it, because it is of kindred strain 
with what Walter Scott and Rogers (in his "Italy") have written 
about their much abused compeer. It is well for us to see great 
men judging so gently, and excusing so generously, faults from 
which they themselves are entirely free ; faults at which men of 
less genius, and less purity too, found it so easy and pleasant to 
rail. I quote it in preference to any thing from Scott and Ro- 
gers, because I presume it to be less generally known. 

In apostrophizing Venice, Shelley says, 



MODERN BRITISH POETS. 89 

" Perish ! let there only be 
Floating o'er thy hearthless sea, 
As the garment of thy sky 
Clothes the world immortally, 
One remembrance more sublime 
Than the tattered pall of Time, 
Which scarce hides thy visage wan; 
That a tempest-cleaving swan 

Of the songs of Albion, 
Driven from his ancestral streams 

By the might of evil dreams, 
Pound a nest in thee ; and Ocean 
Welcomed him with such emotion 
That its joy grew his, and sprung 
From his lips like music flung 
O'er a mighty thunder-fit 
Chastening terror; — What though yet 

Poesy's unfailing river, 
Which through Albion winds for ever 

Lashing with melodious wave 

Many a sacred poet's grave, 

Mourn its latest nursling fled ! 
What though thou, with all thy dead, 

Scarce can for this fame repay 

Aught thine own ; — oh, rather say 

Though thy sins and slaveries foul 

Overcloud a sun- like soul ! 

As the ghost of Homer clings 

Round Scamander's wasting springs ; 

As divinest Shakspeare's might 

Fills Avon and the world with light; 

Like omniscient power, which he 

Imaged 'mid mortality : 

As the love from Petrarch's urn 

Yet amid yc.i hills doth burn, 
A quenchless lamp by which the heart 

Sees things unearthly ; so thou art, 

Mighty spirit; so shall be 

The city that did refuge thee." 



90 PAPERS ON LITERATURE AND ART. 

In earlier days the greatest poets addressed themselves more 
to the passions or heart-emotions of their fellow-men than to their 
thoughts or mind-emotions. The passions were then in their 
natural state, and held their natural places in the character. 
They were not made sickly by a false refinement, or stimulated 
to a diseased and incessantly craving state. Men loved and 
hated to excess, perhaps ; but there was nothing factitious in 
their love or hatred. The tone of poetry, even when employed 
on the most tragic subjects, might waken in the hearer's heart a 
chord of joy ; for in such natural sorrow there was a healthful 
life, an energy which told of healing yet to come and the endless 
riches of love and hope. 

How different is its tone in Faust and Manfred ; how false to 
simple nature, yet how true to the time ! As the mechanism of 
society has become more complex, and must be regulated more 
by combined efforts, desire after individuality brings him who 
manifests it into a state of conflict with society. This is felt from 
a passion, whether it be love or ambition, which seeks to make 
its own world independent of trivial daily circumstances, and 
struggles long against the lessons of experience, which tell it that 
such singleness of effort and of possession cannot be, consistently 
with that grand maxim of the day, the greatest happiness of the 
greatest number. Not until equally enlightened and humble, can 
the human being learn that individuality of character is not 
necessarily combined with individuality of possession, but depends 
alone on the zealous observance of truth. Few can be wise 
enough to realize with Schiller, that " to be truly immortal one 
must live in the whole.'" The mind struggles long, before it 
can resolve on sacrificing any thing of its impulsive nature to the 
requisitions of the time. And while it struggles it mourns, and 
these lamentations compose the popular poetry. Men do not now 
look in poetry for a serene world, amid whose vocal groves and 
green meads they may refresh themselves after the heat of action 



MODERN BRITISH POETS. 91 

and in paradisaical quiet listen to the tales of other days. No ! 
dissatisfied and represt, they want to be made to weep, because, 
in so doing, they feel themselves in some sense free. 

All this conflict and apparently bootless fretting and wailing 
mark a transition-state — a state of gradual revolution, in which 
men try all things, seeking what they hold fast, and feel that it 
is good. But there are some, the pilot-minds of the age, who 
cannot submit to pass all their lives in experimentalizing. They 
cannot consent to drift across the waves in the hope of finding 
somewhere a haven and a home ; but, seeing the blue sky over 
them, and believing that God's love is every where, try to make 
the best of that spot on which they have been placed, and, not 
unfrequently, by the aid of spiritual assistance, more benign than 
that of Faust's Lemures, win from the raging billows large terri- 
tories, whose sands they can convert into Eden bowers, tenanted 
by lovely and majestic shapes. 

Such are Southey, Coleridge, and Wordsworth. They could 
not be satisfied, like Byron, with embodying the peculiar wit or 
peculiar sufferings of the times ; nor like Scott, with depicting 
an era which has said its say and produced its fruit : nor like 
Campbell, with occasionally giving a voice and a permanent 
being to some brilliant moment or fair scene. Not of nobler na- 
ture, not more richly endowed than Shelley, they were not doomed 
to misguided efforts and baffled strivings ; much less could they, 
like Moore, consider poetry merely as the harmonious expression 
of transient sensations. To them Poetry was, must be, the ex- 
pression of what is eternal in man's nature, through illustrations 
drawn from his temporal state ; a representation in letters of fire, 
on life's dark curtain, of that which lies beyond ; philosophy 
dressed in the robes of Taste and Imagination; the voice of 
Nature and of God, numanized by being echoed back from the 
understanding hearts of Priests and Seers ! Of course this could 
not be the popular poetry of the day. Being eminently the pro- 



92 PAPERS ON LITERATURE AND ART. 

duct of reflection and experience, it could only be appreciated by 
those who had thought and felt to some depth. I confess that 
it is not the best possible poetry, since so exclusively adapted to 
the meditative few. In Shakspeare, or Homer, there is for minds 
of every grade as much as they are competent to receive, 
the shallow or careless find there amusement ; minds of a higher 
order, meaning which enlightens and beauty which enchants 
them. 

This fault which I have admitted, this want of universality is 
not surprising, since it was necessary for these three poets to 
stand apart from the tide of opinion, and disregard the popular 
tastes, in order to attain firmness, depth, or permanent beauty. 
And they being, as I have said, the pilot-minds of their time, 
their works enjoy a growing, though not a rapidly growing, popu- 
larity. 

Coleridge, in particular, is now very much read, nor, notwith- 
standing his was but occasional homage to the shrine of poesy, 
was he the least valuable votary of the three, since, if he has 
done least, if his works form a less perfect whole, and are there- 
fore less satisfactory than those of the other two, he is far more 
suggestive, more filled with the divine magnetism of intution, 
than they. 

The muse of Southey is a beautiful statue of crystal, in whose 
bosom burns an immortal flame. We hardly admire, as they de- 
serve, the perfection of the finish, and the elegance of the con- 
tours, because our attention is so fixed on the radiance which 
glows through them. 

Thus Southey is remarkable for the fidelity, and still more 
for the grace, of his descriptions ; for his elegant manner of 
expressing sentiments noble, delicate, and consistent in their tone ; 
for his imagination, but, more than all, for his expansive and fer- 
vent piety. 

In his fidelity of description there is nothing of the minute 



MODERN BRITISH POETS. 93 

accuracy of Scott. Southey takes no pleasure in making little 
dots and marks ; his style is free and bold, yet always true, 
sometimes elaborately true, to nature. Indeed, if he has a fault, 
it is that he elaborates too much. He himself has said that poe- 
try should be "thoroughly erudite, thoroughly animated, and 
thoroughly natural." His poetry cannot always boast of the two 
last essentials. Even in his most brilliant passages there is 
nothing of the heat of inspiration, nothing of that celestial fire 
which makes us feel that the author has, by intensifying the 
action of his mind, raised himself to communion with superior 
intelligences. It is where he is most calm that he is most beauti- 
ful ; and, accordingly, he is more excellent in the expression of 
sentiment than in narration. Scarce any writer presents to us a 
sentiment with such a tearful depth of expression ; but though it 
is a tearful depth, those tears were shed long since, and Faith 
and Love have hallowed them. You nowhere are made to feel 
the bitterness, the vehemence of present emotion ; but the phce- 
nix born from passion is seen hovering over the ashes of what 
was once combined with it. Southey is particularly exquisite in 
painting those sentiments which arise from the parental and filial 
relation : whether the daughter looks back from her heavenly 
lover, and the opening bowers of bliss, still tenderly solicitous for 
her father, whom she, in the true language of woman's heart, 
recommends to favour, as 

" That wretched, persecuted, poor good man ;" 

or the father, as in " Thalaba,"' shows a faith in the benignity 
and holiness of his lost daughter, which the lover, who had given 
up for her so high a destiny, wanted ;— or, as in "Roderick," the 
miserable, sinful child wanders back to relieve himself from 
the load of pollution at the feet of a sainted mother ; always — 
always he speaks from a full, a sanctified soul, in tones of thrill- 
ing melody. 



94 PAPERS ON LITERATURE AND ART. 

The imagination of Southey is marked by similar traits ; there 
is no flash, no scintillation about it, but a steady light as of day 
itself. As specimens of his best manner, I would mention the 
last stage of Thalaba's journey to the Domdaniel Caves, and, in 
the " Curse of Kehama," the sea-palace of Baly, " The Glen- 
doveer," and " The Ship of Heaven." As Southey's poems are 
not very generally read, I will extract the two latter : 

"THE SHIP OF HEAVEN. 

" The ship of heaven, instinct with thought displayed 
Its living sail and glides along the sky, 

On either side, in wavy tide, 
The clouds of morn along its path divide ; 
The winds that swept in wild career on high, 
Before its presence check their charmed force ; 
The winds that, loitering, lagged along their course 
Around the living bark enamored play, 
Swell underneath the sail, and sing before its way. 

" That bark in shape was like the furrowed shell 
Wherein the sea-nymphs to their parent king, 
On festal days their duteous offerings bring ; 
Its hue 1 go watch the last green light 
Ere evening yields the western sky to night, 
Or fix upon the sun thy strenuous sight 
Till thou hast reached its orb of chrysolite. 

The sail, from end to end displayed, 
Bent, like a rainbow, o'er the maid ; 

An angel's head with visual eye, 
Through trackless space directs its chosen way; 

Nor aid of wing, nor foot nor fin, 
Requires to voyage o'er the obedient sky. 
Smooth as the swan when not a breeze at even 

Disturbs the surface of the silver stream, 
Through air and sunshine sails the ship of heaven." 

Southey professes to have borrowed the description of the Glen- 
doveer from an old and forgotten book. He has given the prose 






MODERN BRITISH POETS. 95 

extract in a note to the " Curse of Kehama," and I think no one 
can compare the two without feeling that the true alchymy has 
been at work there. His poetry is a new and life-giving ele- 
ment to the very striking thoughts he borrowed. Charcoal and 
diamonds are not more unlike in their effect upon the observer. 

"THE GLENDOVEER. 

" Of human form divine was he, 
The immortal youth of heaven who floated by, 

Even such as that divinest form shall be 
In those blest stages of our mortal race, 

When no infirmity, 
Low thought, nor base desire, nor wasting care 
Deface the semblance of our heavenly sire — 
The wings of eagle or of cherubim 
Had seemed unworthy him ; 
Angelic power and dignity and grace 
Were in his glorious pennons ; from the neck 
Down to the ankle reached their swelling web 
Richer than robes of Tyrian dye, that deck 

Imperial majesty : 
Their color, like the winter's moonless sky 
When all the stars of midnight's canopy 
Shine forth ; or like the azure deep at noon, 
Reflecting back to heaven a brighter blue, 
Such was their tint when closed, but when outspread. 

The permeating light 
Shed through their substance thin a varying hue; 

Now bright as when the rose, 
Beauteous as fragrant, gives to scent and sight 
A like delight, now like the juice that flows 

From Douro's generous vine, 
Or ruby when with deepest red it glows ; 
Or as the morning clouds refulgent shine 
When at forthcoming of the lord of day, 
The orient, like a shrine, 
Kindles as it receives the rising ray, 
And heralding his way 



96 PAPERS ON LITERATURE AND ART. 

Proclaims the presence of the power diviii >— 

Thus glorious were the wings 
Of that celestial spirit, as he went 
Disporting through his native element — 

Nor these alone 
The gorgeous beauties that they gave *o 'dew; 
Through the broad membrane branched a pliant bone, 

Spreading like fibres from their parent stem ; 
Its vines like interwoven silver shone ; 

Or as the chaster hue 
Of pearls that grace some sultan's diadem. 
Now with slow stroke and strong, behold him smite 

The buoyant air, and now in gentler flight 
On motionless wing expanded, shoot along." 

All Southey's works are instinct, and replete with the experi. 
«nces of piety, from that fine picture of natural religion, Joan of 
Arc's confession of faith, to that as noble sermon as ever was 
preached upon Christianity, the penitence of Roderic the Goth. 
This last is the most original and elevated in its design of all 
Southey's poems. In " Thalaba" and "Joan of Arc," he had 
illustrated the power of faith ; in " Madoc" contrasted religion 
under a pure and simple form with the hydra ugliness of super- 
stition. In "Kehama" he has exhibited virtue struggling against 
the most dreadful inflictions with heavenly fortitude, and made 
manifest tu us the angel-guards who love to wait on innocence 
and goodness. But in Roderic the design has even a higher 
scope, is more difficult of execution ; and, so far as I know, 
unique. The temptations which beset a single soul have been a 
frequent subject, and one sure of sympathy if treated with any 
power. Breathlessly we watch the conflict, with heartfelt an- 
guish mourn defeat, or with heart-expanding triumph hail a con- 
quest. But, where there has been defeat, to lead us back with 
the fallen one through the thorny and desolate paths of repent- 
ance to purification, to win not only our pity, but our sympathy, 
for one crushed and degraded by his own sin ; and finally, 



MODERN BRITISH POETS. 97 

through his faithful though secret efforts to redeem the past, 
secure to him, justly blighted and world-forsaken as he is, not 
only our sorrowing love, but our respect ; — this Southey alone 
has done, perhaps alone could do. As a scene of unrivalled ex- 
cellence, both for its meaning and its manner, I would mention 
that of Florinda's return with " Roderic," (who is disguised as a 
.monk, and whom she does not know,) to her father ; when after 
such a strife of heart-rending words and heart-broken tears, they, 
exhausted, seat themselves on the bank of the little stream, and 
watch together the quiet moon. Never has Christianity spoken 
in accents of more penetrating tenderness since the promise was 
given to thjm that be weary and heavy-laden. 

Of Coleridge I shall say little. Few minds are capable of 
fathoming his by their own sympathies, and he has left .us no ad- 
equate manifestation of himself as a poet by which to judge him. 
For his dramas, I consider them complete failures, and more like 
visions than dramas. For a metaphysical mind like his to at. 
tempt that walk, was scarcely more judicious than it would be 
for a blind man to essay painting the bay of Naples. Many of 
his smaller pieces are perfect in their way, indeed no writer 
could excel him in depicting a single mood of mind, as Dejection, 
for instance. Could Shakspeare have surpassed these lines ? 

" A grief without a pang, void, dark, and drear 
A stifled, drowsy, unimpassioned grief, 
Which finds no natural outlet, no relief, 
In word, or sigh, or tear. 

O Lady, in this wan and heartless mood, 
To other thoughts by yonder throstle wooed, 
All this long eve, so balmy and serene, 

Have I been gazing on the western sky 
And its peculiar tint of yellow green : 

And still I gaze — and with how blank an eye ! 
And those thin clouds above, in flakes and bars, 
T^:at give away their motion to the stars; 
9 



98 PAPERS ON LITERATURE AND ART. 

Those stars, that glide behind them or between, 
Now sparkling, now bedimmed, but always seen ; 
Yon crescent moon, as fixed as if it grew 
In its own cloudless, starless lake of blue ; 

I see them all, so excellently fair, 
I see, not feel, how beautiful they are ! 

My genial spirits fail, 

And what can these avail 
To lift the smothering weight from off my breast 1 

It were a vain endeavour, 

Though I should gaze for ever 
On that green light that lingers in the West, 
I may not hope from outward forms to win 
The passion and the life whose fountains are within." 

Give Coleridge a canvass, and he will paint a single mood as if 
his colors were made of the mind's own atoms. Here he is very 
unlike Southey. There is nothing of the spectator about Cole- 
ridge ; he is all life ; not impassioned, not vehement, but search- 
ing, intellectual life, which seems " listening through the frame" 
to its own pulses. 

I have little more to say at present except to express a great, 
though not fanatical veneration for Coleridge, and a conviction 
that the benefits conferred by him on this and future ages are as 
yet incalculable. Every mind will praise him for what it can 
best receive from him. He can suggest to an infinite degree ; 
he can inform, but he cannot reform and renovate. To the un- 
prepared he is nothing, to the prepared, every thing. Of him 
may be said what he said of Nature, 

" We receive but what we give, 
In kind though not in measure." 

I was once requested, by a very sensible and excellent person- 
age to explain what is meant by " Christabel" and " The An- 
cient Mariner." I declined the task. I had not then seen Cole- 
ridge's answer to a question of similar tenor from Mrs. Barbauld, 



MODERN BRITISH POETS. 99 

or I should have referred to that as an expression, not altogether 
unintelligible, of the discrepancy which must ever exist between 
those minds which are commonly styled rational, (as the received 
definition of common sense is insensibility to uncommon sense,) 
and that of Coleridge; As to myself, if I understand nothing be- 
yond the execution of those " singularly wild and original poems," 
I could not tell my gratitude for the degree of refinement which 
Taste has received from them. To those who cannot understand 
the voice of Nature or Poetry, unless it speak in apothegms, and 
tag each story with a moral, I have nothing to say. My own 
greatest obligation to Coleridge I have already mentioned. It is 
for his suggestive power that I thank him. 

Wordsworth ! beloved friend and venerated teacher ; it is 
more easy and perhaps as profitable to speak of thee. It is less 
difficult to interpret thee, since no acquired nature, but merely a 
theory, severs thee from my mind. 

Classification on such a subject is rarely satisfactory, yet I 
will attempt to define in that way the impressions produced by 
Wordsworth on myself. I esteem his characteristics to be — of 
Spirit, 

Perfect simplicity, 

Perfect truth, 

Perfect love. 
Of mind or talent, 

Calmness, 

Penetration, 

Power of Analysis. 
Of manner, 

Energetic greatness, 

Pathetic tendernesss, 

Mild, persuasive eloquence. 
The time has gone by when groundlings could laugh with im- 
punity at " Peter Bell" and the " Idiot Mother." Almost every 



100 PAPERS ON LITERATURE AND ART. 

line of Wordsworth has been quoted and requoted ; every feel, 
ing echoed back, and every drop of that " cup of still and serious 
thought" drunk up by some " spirit profound ;" enough to sat- 
isfy the giver. 

Wordsworth is emphatically the friend and teacher of mature 
years. Youth, in whose bosom " the stately passions burn," is 
little disposed to drink with him from the 

" urn 
Of lowly pleasure." 

He has not an idealizing tendency, if by this be meant the desire 
of creating from materials supplied by our minds, and by the 
world in which they abide for a season, a new and more beau- 
tiful world. It is the aspiration of a noble nature animated by 
genius, it is allied with the resolve for self-perfection ; and 
few, without some of its influence, can bring to blossom the bud 
of any virtue. It is fruitful in illusions, but those illusions have 
heavenly truth interwoven with their temporary errors. But the 
mind of Wordsworth, like that of the man of science, finds enough 
of beauty in the real present world. He delights in penetrating 
the designs of God, rather than in sketching designs of his own. 
Generally speaking, minds in which the faculty of observation is 
so prominent, have little enthusiasm, little dignity of sentiment. 
That is, indeed, an intellect of the first order, which can see the 
great in the little, and dignify the petty operations of Nature, by 
tracing through them her most sublime principles. Wordsworth 
scrutinizes man and nature with the exact and searching eye of a 
Cervantes, a Fielding, or a Richter, but without any love for that 
humorous wit which cannot obtain its needful food unaided by 
such scrutiny ; while dissection merely for curiosity's sake is his 
horror. He has the delicacy of perception, the universality of 
feeling which distinguish Shakspeare and the three or four other 
poets of the first class, and might have taken rank with them had 



MODERN BRITISH POETS. 101 

he been equally gifted with versatility of talent. Many might 
reply, " in wanting this last he wants the better half." To this 
I cannot agree. Talent, or facility in making use of thought, is 
dependent, in a great measure, on education and circumstance ; 
while thought itself is immortal as the soul from which it radiates. 
Wherever we perceive a profound thought, however imperfectly 
expressed, we offer a higher homage, than we can to common- 
place thoughts, however beautiful, or if expressed with all that 
grace of art which it is often most easy for ordinary minds to ac- 
quire. There is a suggestive and stimulating power in original 
thought which cannot be gauged by the first sensation or tempo- 
rary effect it produces. The circles grow wider and wider as 
the impulse is propagated through the deep waters of eternity. 
An exhibition of talent causes immediate delight ; almost all of us 
can enjoy seeing a thing well done ; not all of us can enjoy be- 
ing roused to do and dare for ourselves. Yet when the mind is 
roused to penetrate the secret meaning of each human effort, a 
higher pleasure and a greater benefit may be derived from the 
rude but masterly sketch, than from the elaborately finished min- 
iature. In the former case our creative powers are taxed to sup- 
ply what is wanting, while in the latter our tastes are refined by 
admiring what another has created. Now, since I esteem Words- 
worth as superior in originality and philosophic unity of thought, 
to the other poets I have been discussing, I give him the highest 
place, though they may be superior to him either in melody, bril- 
liancy of fancy, dramatic power, or general versatility of talent. 
Yet I do not place him on a par with those who combine 'those 
minor excellencies with originality and philosophic unity of 
thought. He is not a Shakspeare, but he is the greatest poet of 
the day ; and this is more remarkable, as he is, par excellence, 
a didactic poet. 

I have paid him the most flattering tribute in saying that there 
is not a line of his which has not been quoted and requoted. 
9* 



102 PAPERS ON LITERATURE AND ART. 

Men have found such a response to their lightest as well as theii 
deepest feelings, such beautiful morality with such lucid philoso- 
phy, that every thinking mind has, consciously or unconsciously, 
appropriated something from Wordsworth. Those who have 
never read his poems have imbibed some part of their spirit from 
the public or private discourse of his happy pupils ; and it is, as 
yet, impossible to estimate duly the effect which the balm of his 
meditations has had in allaying the fever of the public heart, as 
exhibited in the writings of Byron and Shelley. 

But, as I said before, he is not for youth, he is too tranquil. 
His early years were passed in listening to, his mature years in 
interpreting, the oracles of Nature ; and though in pity and in 
love he sympathizes with the conflicts of life, it is not by min- 
gling his tears with the sufferer's, but by the consolations of pa- 
tient faith, tnat he would heal their griefs. 

The sonnet on Tranquillity, to be found in the present little 
volume, exhibits him true to his old love and natural religion. 

" Tranquillity ! the solemn aim wert thou 
In heathen schools of philosophic lore ; 
Heart-stricken by stern destiny of yore, 
The tragic muse thee served with thoughtful vow; 
And what of hope Elysium could allow 
Was fondly seized by Sculpture, to restore 
Peace to the mourner's soul ; but he who wore 
The crown of thorns around his bleeding brow, 
Warmed our sad being with his glorious light ; 
Then arts which still had drawn a softening grace 

" From shadowy fountains of the Infinite, 
Communed with that idea face to face ; 
And move around it now as planets run, 
Each in its orbit round the central sun." 

The doctrine of tranquillity does not suit the impetuous blood 
of the young, yet some there are, who, with pulses of temperate 
and even though warm and lively beat, are able to prize such 



MODERN BRITISH POETS. 103 

poetry from their earliest days. One young person in particular 
I knew, very like his own description of 

" Those whose hearts every hour run wild, 
But never yet did go astray ;" 

who had read nothing but Wordsworth, and had by him been 
plentifully fed. I do not mean that she never skimmed novels 
nor dipped, into periodicals ; but she never, properly speaking, 
read, i. e. comprehended and reflected on any other book. But 
as all knowledge has been taught by Professor Jacotot from the 
Telernachus of Fenelon, so was she taught the secrets of the uni- 
-erse from Wordsworth's poems. He pointed out to her how 

" The primal duties shine aloft like stars, 
The charities that soothe, and heal, and bless, 
Are scattered at the feet of Man — like flowers." 

He read her lectures about the daisy, the robin red-breast, and 
the waterfall. He taught her to study Nature and feel God's 
' presence ; to enjoy and prize human sympathies without needing 
the stimulus of human passions ; to love beauty with a faith 
which enabled har to perceive it amid seeming ugliness, to hope 
goodness so as to create it. And she was a very pretty specimen 
of Words worthianism ; so sincere, so simple, so animated and so 
equable, so hopeful and so calm. She was confiding as an in- 
fant, and so may remain till her latest day, for she has no touch 
of idolatry ; and her trustfulness is not in any chosen person or 
persons, but in the goodness of God, who will always protect those 
who are true to themselves and sincere towards others. 

But the young, in general, are idolaters. They will have their 
private chapels of ease in the great temple of nature ; they will 
ornament, according to fancy, their favorite shrines ; and ah ! too 
frequently look with aversion or contempt upon all others. Till 
this ceases to be so, till they can feel the general beauty of de. 
sign, and live content to be immortal in the grand whole, they 



104 PAPERS ON LITERATURE AND ART. 

cannot really love Wordsworth ; nor can to them " the simplest 
flower" bring " thoughts that lie too deep for tears." Happy his 
pupils ; they are gentle, they are calm, and they must always 
be progressing in our knowledge ; for, to a mind which can sym. 
pathize with his, no hour, no scene can possibly be barren. 

The contents of the lately published little volume* accord per- 
fectly, in essentials, with those of the preceding four. The son- 
nets are like those he has previously written — equally unfinished 
as Sonnets, equally full of meaning as poems. Tf it be the case 
with all his poems, that scarcely one forms a perfect whole by it- 
self, but is valuable as a leaf out of his mind, it is peculiarly so with 
his sonnets. I presume he only makes use of this difficult mode 
of writing because it is a concise one for the expression of a sin- 
gle thought or a single mood. I know not that one of his sonnets 
is polished and wrought to a point, as this most artistical of all 
poems should be ; but neither do I know one which does not con- 
tain something we would not willingly lose. As the beautiful 
sonnet which I shall give presently, whose import is so wide and 
yet so easily understood, contains in the motto, what Messei Pp- 
trarca would have said in the two concluding lines. 

(Miss not the occasion ; by the forelock take 
That subtle power, the never-halting time. 
Lest a mere moment's putting off should make 
Mischance almost as heavy as a crime) — 
" Wait, prithee, wait ! this answer Lesbia threw 
Forth to her dove, and took no further heed ; 
Her eyes were busy, while her fingers flew 

Across the harp, with soul-engrossing speed ; 
But from that bondage when her thoughts were freed, 
She rose, and toward the shut casement drew, 
Whence the poor, unregarded favourite, true 
To old affections, had been heard to plead 
With flapping wing for entrance — What a shriek 

* Yarrow Revisited, and other poems. 



MODERN BRITISH POETS. 105 

Forced from that voice so lately tuned to a strain 
Of harmony ! — a shriek of terror, pain, 
And self-reproach ! — for from aloft a kite 
Pounced, and the dove, which from its ruthless heak 
She could not rescue, perished in her sight !" 

Even the Sonnet upon Sonnets, so perfect in the details, is not 
perfect as a whole. 

However, I am not so fastidious as some persons about the 
dress of a thought. These sonnets are so replete with sweetness 
and spirit, that we can excuse their want of symmetry ; and 
probably should not feel it, except from comparison with more 
highly-finished works of the same kind. One more let me ex- 
tract, which should be laid to heart : 

" Desponding father! mark this altered bough 
So beautiful of late, with sunshine warmed, 
Or moist with dews ; what more unsightly now, 
Its blossom shrivelled, and its fruit, if formed, 
invisible ! yet Spring her genial brow 
Knits not o'er that discolouring and decay 
As false to expectation. Nor fret thou 
At like unlovely process in the May 
Of human life ; a stripling's graces blow, 
Fade and are shed, that from their timely fall 
(Misdeem it not a cankerous change) may grow 
Rich mellow bearings that for thanks shall call ; 
In all men sinful is it to be slow 
To hope — in parents sinful above all." 

" Yarrow Revisited" is a beautiful reverie. It ought to be read 
as such, for it has no determined aim. These are fine verses. 
" And what for this frail world were all 
That mortals do or suffer, 
Did no responsive harp, no pen, 

Memorial tribute offer 1 
Yea, what were mighty Nature's self 1 ? 

Her features, could they win us, 
Unbelped by the poetic voice 
That hourly speaks within us 1 



106 PAPERS ON LITERATURE AND ART. 

" Nor deem that localized romance 

Plays false with our affections ; 
Unsanctifies our tears — made sport 

For fanciful dejections ; 
Ah, no ! the visions of the past 

Sustain the heart in feeling 
Life as she is — our changeful life, 

With friends and kindred dealing." 

and : Lis stanza, 

" Eternal blessings on the Muse, 

And her divine employment ! 
The blameless Muse, who trains her son* 

For hope and calm enjoyment ; 
Albeit sickness, lingering yet, 

Has o'er their pillow brooded; 
And care waylay their steps — a sprite 

Not easily eluded." 

reminds us of what Scott says in his farewell to the Harp of the 
North : 

" Much have I owed thy strains, on life's long way, 
Through secret woes the world has never known, 
When on the weary night dawned wearier day, 
And bitter was the grief devoured alone, 
That I o'erlive such woes, Enchantress, is thine own." 

"The Egyptian Maid" is distinguished by a soft visionary style 
of painting, and a stealthy alluring movement, like the rippling 
of advancing waters, which, I do not remember elsewhere in 
Wordsworth's writings. 

" The Armenian Lady's love" is a fine balled. The following 
verses are admirable for delicacy of sentiment and musical sweet- 
ness. 

" Judge both fugitives with knowledge ; 
In those old romantic days 
Mighty were the soul's commandments 
To support, restrain, or raise. 



MODERN BRITISH POETS. 107 

Foes might hang upon their path, snakes rustle near. 
But nothing from their inward selves had they to fear. 

" Thought infirm ne'er came between them, 
Whether printing desert sands 
With accordant steps, or gathering 
Forest fruit with social hands ; 
Or whispering like two reeds that in the cold moonbeam 
Bend with the breeze their heads beside a crystal stream." 

The Evening Voluntaries are very beautiful in manner, and full 
of suggestions. The second is worth extracting as a forcible 
exhibition of one of Wordsworth's leading opinions. 

" Not in the lucid intervals of life 
That come but as a curse to party strife ; 
Not in some hour when pleasure with a sigh 
Of languor, puts his rosy garland by; 
Not in the breathing times of that poor slave 
Who daily piles up wealth in Mammon's cave, 
Is nature felt, or can be ; nor do words 
Which practised talent readily affords 
Prove that her hands have touched responsive chords. 
Nor has her gentle beauty power to move 
With genuine rapture and with fervent love 
The soul of genius, if he dares to take 
Life's rule from passion craved for passion's sake , 
Untaught that meekness is the cherished bent 
Of all the truly great and all the innocent ; 
But *ho is innocent 1 By grace divine, 
Not otherwise, O Nature ! we are thine, 
Through good and evil thine, or just degree 
Of rational and manly sympathy, 
To all that earth from pensive hearts is stealing, 
And heaven is now to gladdened eyes revealing. 
Add every charm the universe can show 
Through every change its aspects undergo, 
Care may be respited, but not repealed ; 
No perfect cure grows on that bounded field, 



108 PAPERS ON LITERATURE AND ART. 

Vain is the pleasure, a false calm the peace, 
If he through whom alone our conflicts cease, 
Our virtuous hopes without relapse advance, 
Come not to speed the soul's deliverance ; 
To the distempered intellect refuse 
His gracious help, or give what we abuse." 

But nothing in this volume better deserves attention than " Lines 
suggested by a Portrait from the pencil of F. Stone," and " Stan- 
zas on the Power of Sound." The first for a refinement and 
justness of thought rarely surpassed, and the second for a lyric 
flow, a swelling inspiration, and a width of range, which Words- 
worth has never equalled, except in the " Ode on the Intimations 
of Immortality," and the noble ode, or rather hymn, to Duty. It 
should be read entire, and 1 shall not quote a line. By a singu- 
lar naivete the poet has prefixed to these stanzas a table of con- 
tents. This distrust of his reader seems to prove that he had 
risen above his usual level. 

What more to the purpose can we say about Wordsworth, ex- 
cept — read him. Like his beloved Nature, to be known he must 
be loved. His thoughts may be transfused, but never adequately 
interpreted. Verily, 

" To paint his being to a grovelling mind, 
Were like describing pictures to the blind. 

But no one, in whose bosom there yet lives a spark of nature or 
feeling, need despair of some time sympathizing with him ; since 
one of the most brilliantly factitious writers of the day, one I 
should have singled out as seven-fold shielded against his gentle 
influence, has paid him so feeling a tribute : 

" How must thy lone and lofty soul have gone 
Exulting on its way, beyond ihe loud 
Self-taunting mockery of the scoffers grown 
Tethered and dulled to Nature, in the crowd ! 
Earth has no nobler, no more moral sight 
Than a Great Poet, whom the world disowns, 



MODERN BRITISH POETS. 109 

But stills not, neither angers ; from his height 

As from a star, float forth his sphere-like tones ; 

He wits not whether the vexed herd may hear 

The music wafted to the reverent ear ; 
And far man's wrath, or scorn, or heed above, 
Smiles down the calm disdain of his majestic love 1" 

[From Stanzas addressed by Bulwer to Wordsworth.] 

Read him, then, in your leisure hours, and when you walk 
into the summer fields you shall find the sky more blue, the 
flowers more fair, the birds more musical, your minds more 
awake, and your hearts more tender, for having held communion 
with him. 

I have not troubled myself to point out the occasional affecta- 
tions of Southey, the frequent obscurity of Coleridge, or the dif- 
fuseness of Wordsworth. I should fear to be treated like the 
critic mentioned in the story Addison quotes from Boccalini, 
whom Apollo rewarded for his labours by presenting him with a 
bushel of chaff from which all the wheat had been winnowed. 
For myself I think that where there is such beauty and strength, 
we can afford to be silent about slight defects ; and that we refine 
our tastes more effectually by venerating the grand and lovely, 
than by detecting the little and mean. 
10 



THE MODERN DRAMA.' 



A tragedy in five acts ! — what student of poetry, — (for, ad. 
mire, O Posterity, the strange fact, these days of book-craft pro- 
duce not only inspired singers, and enchanted listeners, but stu- 
dents of poetry,) — what student in this strange sort, I say, has 
not felt his eye rivetted to this title, as it were written in letters 
of fire ? has not heard it whispered in his secret breast ? — In this 
form alone canst thou express thy thought in the liveliness of life, 
this success alone should satisfy thy ambition ! 

Were all these ardours caught from a genuine fire, such as, 
in favouring eras, led the master geniuses by their successive ef- 
forts to perfect this form, till it afforded the greatest advantages 
in the smallest space, we should be glad to warm and cheer us 
at a very small blaze. But it is not so. The drama, at least 
the English drama of our day, shows a reflected light, not a 
spreading fire. It is not because the touch of genius has roused 
genius to production, but because the admiration of genius has 
made talent ambitious, that the harvest is still so abundant. 

This is not an observation to which there are no exceptions, 
some we shall proceed to specify, but those who have, with any 
care, watehed this ambition in their own minds, or analyzed its 

* The Patrician's Daughter, a tragedy, in five acts, by J. Westland Marston : 
London : C. Mitchel, Red Lion Court, Fleet Street, 1841. 

Athelwold, a tragedy in five acts, by W. Smith, Esq. ; William Blackwood 
and Sons. London and Edinburgh, 1842. 

Strafford, a tragedy, by John Sterling. London ; Edward Moxon, Dovei 
Street, 1843. 

(110) 



THE MODERN JDRAMA. Ill 

results in the works of others, cannot but feel that th? drama is 
not a growth native to this age, and that the numerous grafts pro- 
duce little fruit, worthy the toil they cost. 

'Tis indeed, hard to believe that the drama, once invented, 
should cease to be a habitual and healthy expression of the mind. 
It satisfies so fully the wants both of sense and soul, supplying 
both deep and light excitements, simple, comprehensive, and vari- 
ous, adapted either to great national and religious subjects, or to 
the private woes of any human breast. The space and the time 
occupied, the vehicle of expression, fit it equally for the entertain- 
ment of an evening, or the closet theme of meditative years. 
jEdipus, Macbeth, Wallenstein, chain us for the hour, lead us 
through the age. 

Who would not covet this mirror, which, like that of the old 
wizards, not only reflects, but reproduces the whole range of 
forms, this key, which unlocks the realms of speculation at the 
hour when the lights are boldest and the shadows most sugges- 
tive, this goblet, whose single sparkling draught is locked from 
common air by walls of glittering ice 1 An artful wild, where 
nature finds no bound to her fertility, while art steadily draws to 
a whole its linked chain. 

Were it in man's power by choosing the best, to attain the 
best in any particular kind, we would not blame the young poet, 
if he always chose the drama. 

But by the same law of faery which ordains that wishes shall 
be granted unavailingly to the wisher, no form of art will suc- 
ceed with him to whom it is the object of deliberate choice. 
It must grow from his nature in a certain position, as it first did 
from the general mind in a certain position, and be no garment 
taken from the shining store to be worn at a banquet, but a 
real body gradually woven and assimilated from the earth and 
sky which environed the poet in his youthful years. Ha may 



112 PAPERS ON LITERATURE ANb ART. 

learn from the old Greek or Hindoo, but he must speak in his 
mother-tongue. 

It was a melancholy praise bestowed on the German Iphigenia, 
that it was an echo of the Greek mind. O give us something 
rather than Greece more Grecian, so new, so universal, so indi- 
vidual ! 

An " After Muse," an appendix period must come to every 
kind of greatness. It is the criticism of the grandchild upon the 
inheritance bequeathed by his ancestors. It writes madrigals 
and sonnets, it makes Brutus wigs, and covers old chairs with 
damask patch-work, yet happy those who have no affection to- 
wards such virtue and entertain their friends with a pipe cut from 
their own grove, rather than display an ivory lute handed down 
from the old time, whose sweetness we want the skill to draw 
forth. 

The drama cannot die out : it is too naturally born of certain 
periods of national development. It is a stream that will sink in 
one place, only to rise to light in another. As it has appeared 
successively in Hindostan, Greece, (Rome we cannot count,) 
England, Spain, France, Italy, Germany, so has it yet to appear 
in New Holland, New Zealand, and among ourselves, when we 
too shall be made new by a sunrise of our own, when our popula- 
tion shall have settled into a homogeneous, national life, and we 
have attained vigour to walk in our own way, make our own 
world, and leave off copying Europe. 

At present our attempts are, for the most part, feebler than 
those of the British " After Muse," for our play-wrights are not 
from youth so fancy-fed by the crumbs that fall from the tables 
of the lords of literature, and having no relish for the berries of 
our own woods, the roots of our own fields, they are meagre, and 
their works bodiless ; yet, as they are pupils of the British school, 
their works need not be classed apart, and I shall mention one ol 
two of the most note-worthy by-and by. 



THE MODERN DRAMA. 113 

England boasts one Shakspeare — ah ! that alone was more than 
the share of any one kingdom, — such a king ! There Apollc 
himself tended sheep, and there is not a blade of the field but 
glows with a peculiar light. At times we are tempted to think 
him the only genius earth has ever known, so beyond compare is 
he, when looked at as the myriad-minded ; then he seems to sit 
at the head of the stream of thought, a lone god beside his urn ; 
the minds of others, lower down, feed the current to a greater 
width, but they come not near him. Happily, in the constructive 
power, in sweep of soul, others may be named beside him : he if 
not always all alone. 

Historically, such isolation was not possible. Such a being 
implies a long ancestry, a longer posterity. We discern immor- 
tal .vigour in the stem that rose to this height. 

But his children should not hope to walk in his steps. Pros- 
pero gave Miranda a sceptre, not his wand. His genius is too 
great for his followers, they dwindle in its shadow. They see 
objects so early with his eyes, they can hardly learn to use their 
own. " They seek to produce from themselves, but they only 
reproduce him." 

He is the cause why so much of England's intellect tends to- 
wards the drama, a cause why it so often fails. His works bring 
despair to genius, they are the bait and the snare of talent. 

The impetus he has given, the lustre with which he dazzles, 
are a chief cause of the dramatic efforts, one cause of failure, but 
not the only one, for it seems probable that European life tends 
to new languages, and for a while neglecting this form of repre- 
sentation, would explore the realms of sound and sight, to make 
to itself other organs, which must for a time supersede .he 
drama. 

There is, perhaps, a correspondence between the successions 
of literary vegetation with those of the earth's surface, where, if 
you burn or cut down an ancient wood, the next offering of the 
10* 



114 PAPERS ON LITERATURE AND ART. 

soil will not be in the same kind, but raspberries and purple 
flowers will succeed the oak, poplars the pine. Thus, beneath 
the roots of the drama, lay seeds of the historic novel, the roman- 
tic epic, which were to take its place to the reader, and for the 
scene, the oratorios, the opera, and ballet. 

Music is the great art of the time. Its dominion is constantly 
widening, its powers are more profoundly recognized. In the 
forms it has already evolved, it is equal to representing any sub- 
ject, can address the entire range of thoughts and emotions. 
These forms have not yet attained their completeness, and al- 
ready we discern many others hovering in the vast distances of 
the Tone-world. 

The opera is in this inferior to the drama, that it produces its 
effects by the double method of dialogue and song. So easy 
seems it to excite a feeling, and by the orchestral accompani- 
ments to sustain it to the end, that we have not the intellectual 
exhilaration which accompanies a severer enjoyment. For the 
same reasons, nothing can surpass the mere luxury of a fine 
opera. 

The oratorio, so great, so perfect in itself, is limited in its 
subjects ; and these, though they must be of the graver class, do 
not properly admit of tragedy. Minds cannot dwell on special 
griefs and seeming partial fates, when circling the universe on 
the wings of the great chorus, sharing the will of the Divine, 
catching the sense of humanity. 

Thus much, as has been given, we demand from music yet 
another method, simpler and more comprehensive than these. 
In instrumental music this is given by the symphony, but we 
want another that shall admit the voice, too, and permit the asso- 
ciation of the spectacle. 

The ballet seems capable of an infinite perfection. There is 
no boundary here to the powers of design and expression, if only 
ft artists can be formed mentally and practically. What could 



THE MODERN DRAMA. 115 

not a vigorous imagination do, if it had delicate Ariels to enact 
its plans, with that facility and completeness which pantomine 
permits ? There is reason to think we shall see the language of 
the eye, of gesture and attitude carried to a perfection, body made 
pliant to the inspirations of spirit, as it can hardly be where 
spoken words are admitted to eke out deficiencies. From our 
America we hope some form entirely new, not yet to be pre- 
dicted, while, though the desire for dramatic representation ex- 
ists, as it always must where there is any vigorous life, the habit 
of borrowing is so pervasive, that in the lately peopled prairies 
of the West, where civilization is but five years old, we find the 
young people acting plays, indeed, and " on successive nights to 
overflowing audiences," — but what 1 Some drama, ready made 
to hand by the fortunes of Boon, or the defeats of Black Hawk ? 
Not at all, but — Tamerlane and the like — Bombastes Furioso, 
and King Cambyses vein to the " storekeepers" and labourers of 
republican America. 

In this connection let me mention the drama of Metamora, a 
favourite on the boards in our cities, which, if it have no other 
merit, yields something that belongs to this region, Forrest hav- 
ing studied for this part the Indian gait and expression with some 
success. He is naturally adapted to the part by the strength and 
dignity of his person and outline. 

To return to Britain. 

The stage was full of life, after the drama began to decline, 
and the actors, whom Shakspeare should have had to represent 
his parts, were born, after his departure, from the dignity given to 
the profession by the existence of such occasion for it. And 
again, out of the existence of such actors rose hosts of .piay- 
wrights, who wrote not to embody the spirit of life, in forms 
shifting and interwoven in the space of a spectacle, but to give 
room for display of the powers of such and such actors. A 
little higher stood those, who excelled in invention of plots, preg^ 



116 PAPERS ON LITERATURE AND ART. 

nant crises, or brilliant point of dialogue, but both degraded the 
drama, Sheridan scarcely less than Cibber ; and Garrick and the 
Kembles, while they lighted up the edifice, left slow fire for its 
destruction. 

A partial stigma rests, as it has always rested, on the profession 
of the actor. At first flash, we marvel why. Why do not men 
bow in reverence before those, who hold the mirror up to nature, 
and not to common nature, but to her most exalted, profound, and 
impassioned hours 1 

Some have imputed this to an association with the trickeries 
and coarse illusions of the scene, with pasteboard swords and 
crowns, mock-thunder and tinfoil moonshine. But in what pro- 
fession are not mummeries practised, and ludicrous accessories 
interposed ? Are the big wig of the barrister, the pen behind the 
ear of the merchant, so reverend in our eyes ? 

Some say that it is because we pay the actor for amusing us ; 
but we pay other men for all kinds of service, without feeling 
them degraded thereby. And is he, who has administered an 
exhilarating draught to my mind, in less pleasing associations 
there, than he who has administered a febrifuge to the body ? 

Again, that the strong excitements of the scene and its motley 
life dispose to low and sensual habits. 

But the instances, where all such temptations have been re- 
sisted, are so many, compared with the number engaged, that 
every one must feel that here, as elsewhere, the temptation is de- 
tei mined by the man. 

Why is it then that to the profession, which numbers in its 
nnka Shakspeare and Moliere, which is dignified by such figures 
as Siddons, Talma, and Macready, respect is less willingly con- 
ceded than applause ? Why is not discrimination used here as 
elsewhere ? Is it the same thing to act the " Lady in Comus," 
and the Lady in " She stoops to Conquer," Hamlet, Prince of 
Denmark, and Sir Lucius O'Triggei ? Is not the actor, accord. 



THE MODERN DRAMA. 117 

ing to his sphere, a great artist or a poor buffoon, just as a law- 
yer may become a chancellor of the three kingdoms, or a base 
pettifogger ? 

Prejudice on this score, must be the remnant of a barbarism 
which saw minstrels the pensioned guests at barons' tables, and 
murdered Correggio beneath a sack of copper. As man better 
understands that his positive existence is only effigy of the ideal, 
and that nothing is useful or honourable which does not advance 
the reign of Beauty, Art and Artists rank constantly higher, as 
one with Religion. Let Artists also know their calling, let the 
Actor live and die a Roman Actor,* more than Raphael shall be 

* We may be permitted to copy, in this connection, the fine plea of Massin- 
ger's " Roman Actor." 

Paris. If desire of honor was the base 

On which the building of the Roman empire 

Was raised up to this height; if, to inflame 

The noble youth, with an ambitious heat, 

To endure the posts of danger, nay, of death, 

To be thought worthy the triumphal wreath, 

By glorious undertakings, may deserve 

Reward, or favor from the commonwealth ; 

Actors may put in for as large a share, 

As all the sects of the philosophers : 

They with cold precepts (perhaps seldom read) 

Deliver what an honorable thing 

The active virtue is : but does that fire 

The blood, or swell the veins with emulation, 

To be both good and great, equal to that 

Which is presented on our theatres 1 

Let a good actor, in a lofty scene, 

Show great Alcides, honored in the sweat 

Of his twelve labors ; or a bold Camillus, 

Forbidding Rome to be redeemed with gold 

From the insulting Gauls, or Scipio, 

After his victories, imposing tribute 

On conquered Carthage ; if done to the life, 



118 PAPERS ON LITERATURE AND ART. 

elected Cardinals, and of a purer church ; and it shall be ere 
long remembered as dream and fable, that the representative of 
" my Cid" could not rest in consecrated ground. 

As if they saw their dangers, and their glories, 
And did partake with them in their rewards, 
All that have any spark of Roman in them, 
The slothful arts laid by, contend to be 
Like those they see presented. 

Second Senator. He has put 
The consuls to their whisper. 

Paris. But 'tis urged 

That we corrupt youth, and traduce superiors. 

When do we bring a vice upon the stage, 

That does go off unpunished 1 Do we teach, 

By the success of wicked undertakings, 

Others to tread in their forbidden steps ? 

We show no arts of Lydian panderism, 

Corinthian poisons, Persian flatteries, 

But mulcted so in the conclusion, that 

Even those spectators, that were so inclined, 

Go home changed men. And for traducing such 

That are above us, publishing to the world 

Their secret crimes, we are as innocent 

As such as are born dumb. When we present 

An heir, that does conspire against the life 

Of his dear parent, numbering every hour 

He lives, as tedious to him ; if there be 

Among the auditors one, whose conscience tells him 

He is of the same mould, — We cannot help it. 

Or, bringing on the stage a loose adulteress, 

That does maintain the riotous expense 

Of her licentious paramour, yet suffers 

The lawful pledges of a former bed 

To starve the while for hunger; if a matron, 

However great in fortune, birth, or titles, 

Cry out, 'Tis writ for me ! — We cannot help it. 

Or, when a covetous man's expressed, whose wealth 



THE MODERN DRAMA. 119 

In Germany these questions have already been fairly weighed; 
and those who read the sketches of her great actors, as given by 
Tieck, know that there, at least, they took with the best minds of 
their age and country their proper place. 

And who, that reads Joanna Baillie's address to Mrs. Siddons, 
but feels that the fate, which placed his birth in another age from 
her, has robbed him of full sense of a kind of greatness whose 
absence none other can entirely supply. 



The impassioned changes of thy beauteous face, 
Thy arms impetuous tost, thy robe's wide flow, 
And the dark tempest gathered on thy brow, 
What time thy flashing eye and lip of scorn 
Down to the dust thy mimic foes have borne ; 
Remorseful musings sunk to deep dejection, 
The fixed and yearning looks of strong affection ; 



Arithmetic cannot number, and whose lordships 

A falcon in one day cannot fly over ; 

Yet he so sordid in his mind, so griping 

As not to afford himself the necessaries 

To maintain life, if a patrician, 

(Though honored with a consulship) find himself 

Touched to the quick in this, — We cannot help it. 

Or, when we show a judge that is corrupt, 

And will give up his sentence, as he favors 

The person, not the cause ; saving the guilty 

If of his faction, and as oft condemning 

The innocent, out of particular spleen ; 

If any in this reverend assembly, 

Nay, even yourself, my lord, that are the image 

Of absent Cffisar, feel something in your bosom 

That puts you in remembrance of things past, 

Or things intended, — 'Tis not in us to help it. 

I have said, my lord, and now, as you find cause, 

Or censure us, or free us with applause. 



120 PAPERS ON LITERATURE AND ART. 

The actioned turmoil of a bosom rending, 
Where pity, love, and honor, are contending ; 

****** 
Thy varied accents, rapid, fitful, slow, 
Loud rage, and fear's snatch'd whisper, quick and low, 
The burst of stifled love, the wail of grief, 
And tones of high command, full, solemn, brief; 
The change of voice and emphasis that threw 
Light on obscurity, and brought to view 
Distinctions nice, when grave or comic mood, 
Or mingled humors, terse and new, elude 
Common perception, as earth's smallest things 
To size and form the vesting hoar-frost brings. 

* * * * * * * 

* * * Thy light * * * * 

* from the mental world can never fade, 
Till all, who've seen thee, in the grave are laid. 
Thy graceful form still moves in nightly dreams 
And what thou wert to the rapt sleeper seems, 
While feverish fancy oft doth fondly trace 
Within her curtained couch thy wondrous face ; 
Yea, and to many a wight, bereft and lone, 

In musing hours, though all to thee unknown, 
Soothing his early course of good and ill, 
With all thy potent charm thou actest still. 

Perhaps the effect produced by Mrs. Siddons is still more 
vividly shown in the character of Jane de Montfort, which seems 
modelled from her. We have no such lotus cup to drink. 
Mademoiselle Rachel indeed seems to possess as much electric 
force as Mrs. Siddons, but not the same imposing individuality. 
The Kembles and Talma were cast in the royal mint to com- 
memorate the victories of genius. That Mrs. Siddons even 
added somewhat of congenial glory to Shakspeare's own concep- 
tions, those who compare the engravings of her in Lady Macbeth 
and Catherine of Arragon, with the picture drawn in their own 
minds from acquaintance with these beings in the original, cannot 
doubt ; the sun is reflected with new glory in the majestic river. 



THE MODERN DRAMA. 121 

Yet, under all these disadvantages there have risen up often, in 
England, and even in our own country, actors who gave a reason 
for the continued existence of the theatre, who sustained the 
ill-educated, flimsy troop, which commonly fills it, and pro- 
voked both the poet and the playwright to turn their powers ir. 
that direction. 

The plays written for them, though no genuine dramas, are 
not without value as spectacle, and the opportunity, however 
lame, gives freer play to the actor's powers, than would the sim- 
ple recitation, by which some have thought any attempt at acting 
whole plays should be superseded. And under the starring sys- 
tem it is certainly less painful, on the whole, to see a play of 
Knowles's than one of Shakspeare's ; for the former, with its 
frigid diction, unnatural dialogue, and academic figures, affords 
scope for the actor to produce striking effects, and to show a 
knowledge of the passions, while all the various beauties of 
Shakspeare are traduced by the puppets who should repeat them, 
and the being closer to nature, brings no one figure into such bold 
relief as is desirable when there is only one actor. Virginius, 
the Hunchback, Metamora, are plays quite good enough for the 
stage at present ; and they are such as those who attend the 
representations of plays will be very likely to write. 

Another class of dramas are those written by the scholars and 
thinkers, whose tastes have been formed, and whose ambition 
kindled, by acquaintance with the genuine English dramatists. 
These again may be divided into two sorts. One, those who 
have some idea to bring out, which craves a form more lively 
than the essay, more compact than the narrative, and who there- 
fore adopt (if Hibernicism may be permitted) the dialogued 
monologue to very good purpose. Such are Festus, Paracelsus, 
Coleridge's Remorse, Shelley's Cenci ; Miss Baillie's plays, 
though meant for action, and with studied attempts to vary them 
by the lighter shades of common nature, which, from her want 
I 11 



122 PAPERS ON LITERATURE AND ART. 

of lively power, have no effect, except to break up the interest, 
and Byron's are of the same class ; they have no present life, no 
action, no slight natural touches, no delicate lines, as of one who 
paints his portrait from the fact ; their interest is poetic, nature 
apprehended in her spirit ; philosophic, actions traced back to 
their causes : but not dramatic, nature reproduced in actual pre- 
sence. This, as a form for the closet, is a very good one, and 
well fitted to the genius of our time. Whenever the writers of 
such fail, it is because they have the stage in view, instead of con- 
sidering the dramatis persona merely as names for classes of 
thoughts. Somewhere betwixt these and the mere acting plays 
stand such as Maturin's Bertram, Talfourd's Ion, and (now before 
me) Longfellow's Spanish Student. Bertram is a good acting 
play, that is, it gives a good opportunity to one actor, and its 
painting, though coarse, is effective. Ion, also, can be acted, 
though its principal merit is in the nobleness of design, and in de- 
rails it is too elaborate for the scene. Still it does move and melt, 
and it is honorable to us that a piece constructed on so high a 
motive, whose tragedy is so much nobler than the customary forms 
of passion, can act on audiences long unfamiliar with such reli- 
gion. The Spanish Student might also be acted, though with no 
great effect, for there is little movement in the piece, or develop- 
ment of character ; its chief merit is in the graceful expression 
of single thoughts or fancies ; as here, 



All the means of action 
The shapeless masses, the materials, 
Lie every where about us. What we need 
Is the celestial fire to change the flint 
Into transparent crystal, bright and clear. 
That fire is genius ! The rude peasant sits 
At evening in his smoky cot, and draws 
With charcoal uncouth figures on the wall. 
The son of genius comes, foot-sore with travel, 
And begs a shelter from the inclement night 









THE MODERN DRAMA. 123 

He takes the charcoal from the peasant's hand, 

And by the magic of his touch at once 

Transfigured, all its hidden virtues shine, 

And in the eyes of the astonished clown, 

It gleams a diamond. Even thus transformed, 

Rude popular traditions and old tales 

Shine as immortal poems, at the touch 

Of some poor houseless, homeless, wandering bard, 

Who had but a night's lodging for his pains. 

But there are brighter dreams than those of fame, 

Which are the dreams of love ! Out of the heart 

Rises the bright ideal of these dreams, 

As from some woodland fount a spirit rises 

And sinks again into its silent deeps, 

Ere the enamoured knight can touch her robe ! 

'T is this ideal, that the soul of man, 

Like the enamoured knight beside the fountain, 

Waits for upon the margin of life's stream; 

Waits to behold her rise from the dark waters 

Clad in a mortal shape ! Alas ! how many 

Must wait in vain ! The stream flows evermore, 

But from its silent deeps no spirit rises. 

Or here, 

I will forget her ! All dear recollections 
Pressed in my heart, like flowers within a book, 
Shall be torn out, and scattered to the winds ; 
I will forget her ! But perhaps hereafter, 
When she shall learn how heartless is the world, 
A voice within her will repeat my name, 
And she will say, ' He was indeed my friend.' 

Passages like these would give great pleasure in the chaste and 
carefully-shaded recitation of Macready or Miss Tree. The style 
of the play is, throughout, elegant and simple. Neither the plot 
nor characters can boast any originality, but the one is woven 
with skill and taste, the others very well drawn, for so slight han- 
dling. 

We had purposed in this place to notice some cf the modern 



124 PAPERS ON LITERATURE AND ART. 

French plays, which hold about the same relation to ihe true 
drama, but this task must wait a more convenient season. 

One of the plays at the head of this notice also comes in here, 
The Patrician's Daughter, which, though a failure as a tragedy, 
from an improbability in the plot, and a want of power to touch 
the secret springs of passion, yet has the merits of genteel com- 
edy in the unstrained and flowing dialogue, and dignity in the 
conception of character. A piece like this pleases, if only by the 
atmosphere of intellect and refinement it breathes. 

But a third class, of higher interest, is the historical, such as 
may well have been suggested to one whose youth was familiar 
with Shakspeare's Julius Csesar, and Kings of England. Who 
that wears in his breast an English heart, and has feeling to ap- 
preciate the capabilities of the historic drama, but must burn with 
desire to use the occasions offered in profusion by the chronicles 
of England and kindred nations, to adorn the inherited halls with 
one tapestry more. It is difficult to say why such an attempt 
should fail, yet it does fail, and each effort in this kind shows 
plainly that the historic novel, not the historic drama, is the form 
appropriate to the genius of our day. Yet these failures come so 
near success, the spent arrows show so bold and strong a hand in 
the marksman, that we would not, for much, be without them. 

First and highest in this list comes Philip Van Artevelde, of 
which we can say that it bears new fruit on the twentieth read- 
ing. At first it fell rather coldly on the mind, coming as it did, 
not as the flower of full flushed being, but with the air of an ex- 
periment made to verify a theory. It came with wrinkled critic's 
brow, consciously antagonistic to a tendency of the age, and we 
looked on it with cold critic's eye, unapt to weep or glow at its 
bidding. But, on closer acquaintance, we see that this way of 
looking, though induced by the author, is quite unjust. It is really 
a noble work that teaches us, a genuine growth that makes ua 
grow, a reflex of nature from the calm depths of a large soul 



THE MODERN DRAMA. 125 

The gi^e and comprehensive character of the ripened man, of 
him whom fire, and light, and earth have tempered to an intelli- 
gent delegate of humanity, has never been more justly felt, rarely 
more life-like painted, than by this author. The Flemish blood 
and the fiery soul are both understood. Philip stands among his 
compatriots the man mature, not premature or alien. He is 
what they should be, his life the reconciling word of his age and 
nation, the thinking head of an unintelligent and easily distem- 
pered body, a true king. The accessories are all in keeping, sap- 
lings of the same wood. The eating, drinking, quarrelling citi- 
zens, the petulant sister, the pure and lovely bride, the sorrowful 
and stained, but deep-souled mistress, the monk, much a priest, 
but more a man, all belong to him and all require him. We can- 
not think of any part of this piece without its centre, and this fact 
proclaims it a great work of art. It is great, the conception of 
the swelling tide of fortune, on which this figure is upborne se- 
renely eminent, of the sinking of that tide with the same face 
rising from the depths, veiled with the same cloud as the heavens, 
in its sadness calmer yet. Too wise and rich a nature he, too 
intelligent of the teachings of earth and heaven to be a stoic, but 
too comprehensive, too poetic, to be swayed, though he might be 
moved, by chance or passion. Some one called him Philip the 
Imperturbable, but his greatness is, that he is not imperturbable, 
only, as the author announces, " not passion's slave." The gods 
would not be gods, if they were ignorant, or impassive ; they must 
be able to see all that men see, only from a higher point of view. 

Such pictures make us willing to live in the widest sense, tc 
bear all that may be borne, for we see that virgin gold may be 
fit to adorn a scabbard, but the good blade is made of tempered 
steel . 

Justice has not been done by the critics to the admirable con- 
duct of the Second Part, because our imaginations were at first so 
struck by the full length picture of the hero in the conquering 
11* 



126 PAPERS ON LITERATURE AND ART. 

days of the First Part, and it was painful to see its majesty veil 
ed with crape, its towering strength sink to ruins in the second. 
Then there are more grand and full passages in the First which 
can be detached and recollected ; as, 

We have not time to mourn ; the worse for us, 
He that lacks time to mourn lacks time to mend ; 
Eternity mourns that. 'T is an ill cure 
For life's worst ills, to have no time to feel them. 
Where sorrow's held intrusive and turned out, 
There wisdom will not enter, nor true power, 
Nor aught that dignifies humanity. 

That beginning, 

To bring a cloud upon the summer day, 
or this famous one, 

Nor do I now despond, &c. 
or the fine scene between Clara, Van Artevelde, and Father John, 
where she describes the death scene at Sesenheim's, beginning, 

Much hast thou merited, my sister dear. 

The second part must be taken as a whole, the dark cloud wi- 
dening and blackening as it advances, while ghastly flashes of 
presage come more and more frequent as the daylight diminishes. 
But there is far more fervor of genius than in the First, showing 
a mind less possessing, more possessed by, the subject, and finer 
touches of nature. Van Artevelde's dignity overpowers us more, 
as he himself feels it less ; as in the acceptance of Father John's 
reproof. 

VAN ARTEVELDE. 

Father John ! 
Though peradventure fallen in your esteem, 
I humbly ask your blessing, as a man, 
That having passed for more in your repute 
Than he could justify, should be content, 
Not with his state, but with the judgment true 



THE MODERN DRAMA. 127 

That to the lowly level of his state 
Brings down his reputation. 

FATHER JOHN. 

Oh, my son ! 
High as you stand, I will not strain my eyes 
To see how higher still you stood before. 
God's blessing be upon you. Fare you well. 

[Exit. 

ARTEVELDE. 

The old man weeps. 

But he reverts at once to the topic of his thought, 

Should England play me false, &c. 

as he always does, for a mind so great, so high, that it cannot fail 
to look over and around any one object, any especial emotion, re- 
turns to its habitual mood with an ease of which shallow and ex- 
citable natures cannot conceive. Thus his reflection, after he has 
wooed Elena, is not that of heartlessness, but of a deep heart. 

How little nattering is a woman's love ! 

And is in keeping with 

I know my course, 
And be it armies, cities, people, priests, 
That quarrel with my love, wise men or fools, 
Friends, foes, or factions, they may swear their oaths, 
And make their murmur ; rave, and fret, and fear, 
Suspect, admonish ; they but waste their rage, 
Their wits, their words, their counsel ; here I stand 
Upon the deep foundations of my faith, 
To this fair outcast plighted ; and the storm 
That princes from their palaces shakes out, 
Though it should turn and head me, should not strain 
The seeming silken texture of this tie. 

4nd not less with 

Pain and grief 
Are transitory things no less than joy ; 



128 PAPERS ON LITERATURE AND ART. 

And though they leave us not the men we were, 
Yet they do leave us. 

With the admirable passages that follow. 

The delicate touches, with which Elena is made to depict her 
own character, move us more than Artevelde's most beautiful de- 
scription of Adriana. 

I have been much unfortunate, my lord, 
I would not love again. 

Shakspeare could not mend the collocation of those words. 

When he is absent I am full of thought, 

And fruitful in expression inwardly, 

And fresh, and free, and cordial, is the flow 

Of my ideal and unheard discourse, 

Calling him in my heart endearing names, 

Familiarly fearless. But alas ! 

No sooner is he present than my thoughts 

Are breathless and bewitched, and stunted so 

In force and freedom, that I ask myself 

Whether I think at all, or feel, or live, 

So senseless am I. 

Would that I were merry ! 
Mirth have I valued not before ; but now 
What would I give to be the laughing front 
Of gay imaginations ever bright, 
And sparkling fantasies ! Oh, all I have, 
Which is not nothing, though I prize it not ; 
My understanding soul, my brooding sense, 
My passionate fancy, and the gift of gifts 
Dearest to waman, which deflowering Time, 
Slow ravisher, from clenchedest fingers wrings, 
My corporal beauty would I barter now 
For such an antic and exulting spirit 
As lives in lively women. 



Your grave, and wise, 
And melancholy men, if they have souls. 



THE MODERN DRAMA. 129 

As commonly they have, susceptible 

Of all impressions, lavish most their love 

Upon the blithe and sportive, and on such 

As yield their want, and chase their sad excess, 

With jocund salutations, nimble talk, 

And buoyant bearing. 

All herself is in the line, 

Which is not nothing, though I prize it not. 
And in her song, 

Down lay in a nook my lady's brach. 
This song I have heard quoted, and applied in such a way as 
to show that the profound meaning, so simply expressed, has some- 
times been understood. 

See with what a strain of reflection Van Artevelde greets the 
news that makes sure his overthrow. 

It is strange, yet true, 
That doubtful knowledge travels with a speed 
Miraculous, which certain cannot match ; 
I know not why, when this or that has chanced, 
The smoke should come before the flash ; yet 't is so. 

The creative power of a soul of genius, is shown by bringing 
out the poetic sweetness of Van Artevelde, more and more, as the 
scene assumes a gloomier hue. The melancholy music of his 
speech penetrates the heart more and more up to the close. 

The gibbous moon was in a wan decline, 
And all was silent as a sick man's chamber, 
Mixing its small beginnings with the dregs 
Of the pale moonshine, and a few feint stars, 
The cold uncomfortable daylight dawned ; 
And the white tents, topping a low-ground fog, 
Showed like a fleet becalmed. 

At the close of the vision : 

And midmost in the eddy and the whirl, 

Mr own face saw 1, which was pale and calm 

As ieath could make it, — then the vision passed, 



130 PAPERS ON LITERATURE A1ND ART. 

And I perceived the river and the bridge, 

The mottled sky, and horizontal moon, 

The distant camp and all things as they were. 

****** 

Elena, think not that I stand in need 

Of false encouragement ; I have my strength, 

Which, though it lie not in the sanguine mood, 

Will answer my occasions. To yourself, 

Though to none other, I at times present 

The gloomiest thoughts that gloomy truths inspire, 

Because I love you. But I need no prop ! 

Nor could I find it in a tinsel show 

Of prosperous surmise. Before the world 

I wear a cheerful aspect, not so false 

As for your lover's solace you put on ; 

Nor in my closet does the oil run low, 

Or the light flicker. 

ELENA. 

Lo, now! you are angry 
Because I try to cheer you. 

VAN ARTEVELDE. 

No, my love, 
Not angry ; that I never was with you ; 
But as I deal not falsely with my own, 
So would I wish the heart of her I love, 
To be both true and brave ; nor self-beguiled, 
Nor putting on disguises for my sake, 
As though I faltered. I have anxious hours; 
As who in like extremities has not 1 
But I have something stable here within, 
Which bears their weight. 

In the last scenes : 

CBCILE. 

She will be better soon, my lord. 

VAN ARTEVELDE. 

Say worse ; 
'T is better for her to be thus bereft. 
One other kiss on that bewitching brow, 



THE MODERN DRAMA. 131 

Pale hemisphere of charms. Unhappy girl ! 

The curse of beauty was upon thy birth, 

Nor love bestowed a blessing. Fare thee well ! 

How clear his voice sounds at the very last. 

The rumor ran that I was hurt to death, 

And then they staggered. Lo ! we're flying all ! 

Mount, mount, old man ; at least let one be saved I 

Roosdyk ! Vauclaire ! the gallant and the kind ! 

Who shall inscribe your merits on your tombs ! 

May mine tell nothing to the world but this: 

That never did that prince or leader live, 

Who had more loyal or more loving friends ! 

Let it be written that fidelity 

Could go no farther. Mount, old friend, and fly ! 

VAN RYK. 

With you, my lord, not else. A fear-struck throng, 
Comes rushing from Mount Dorre. Sir, cross the bridge. 

ARTEVELDE. 

The bridge ! my soul abhors — but cross it thou ; 
And take this token to my love, Van Ryk ; 
Fly, for my sake in hers, and take her hence ! 
It is my last command. See her conveyed 
To Ghent by Olsen, or what safer road 
Thy prudence shall descry. This do, Van Ryk. 
Lo ! now they pour upon us like a flood ! — 
Thou that didst never disobey me yet — 
This last good office render me. Begone ! 
Fly whilst the way is free. 

What commanding sweetness in the utterance of the name, 
Van Ryk, and what a weight of tragedy in the broken sentence 
which speaks of the fatal bridge. These are the things that act- 
ors rarely give us, the very passages to which it would be their 
vocation to do justice ; saying out those tones we divine from the 
order of the words. 

Yet Talma's Pas encore set itself to music in the mind of the 



132 PAPERS ON LITERATURE AND ART. 

hearer ; and Zara, you weep, was so spoken as to melt the whole 
French nation into that one moment. 
Elena's sob of anguish : 

Arouse yourself, sweet lady : fly with me, 
I pray you hear ; it was his last command 
That I should take you hence to Ghent by Olsen. 

ELENA. 

I cannot go on foot. 

VAN RTK. 

No, lady, no, 
You shall not need ; horses are close at hand, 
Let me but take you hence. I pray you come. 

ELENA. 

Take him then too. 

VAN RYK. 

The enemy is near, 
In hot pursuit ; we cannot take the body. 

ELENA. 

The body! Oh! 
In this place Miss Kemble alone would have had force of pas- 
sion to represent her, who 

Flung that long funereal note 
Into the upper sky 1 

Though her acting was not refined enough by intellect and cul- 
ture for the more delicate lineaments of the character. She also 
would have given its expression to the unintelligent, broken-hearted, 
I cannot go on foot. 
The body — yes, that temple could be so deserted by its god, 
that men could call it so ! That form so instinct with rich gifts, 
that baseness and sloth seemed mere names in its atmosphere, 
could lie on the earth as unable to vindicate its rights, as any 
other clod. The exclamation of Elena, better bespoke the trag- 
edy of this fact, than any eulogium of a common observer, though 
that of Burgundy is fitly worded. 



THE MODERN DRAMA. 133 

Dire rebel though he was, 
Yet with a noble nature and great gifts 
Was he endowed : courage, discretion, wit, 
An equal temper and an ample soul, 
Rock-bound and fortified against assaults 
Of transitory passion, but below 
Built on a surging subterraneous fire, 
That stirred and lifted him to high attempts, 
So prompt and capable, and yet so calm; 
He nothing lacked in sovereignty but the right, 
Nothing in soldiership except good fortune. 

That was the grandeur of the character, that its calmness had 
nothing to do with slowness of blood, but was " built on a surging 
subterranean fire." 

Its magnanimity is shown with a fine simplicity. To blame 
one's self is easy, to condemn one's own changes and declensions 
of character and life painful, but inevitable to a deep mind. But 
to bear well the blame of a lesser nature, unequal to seeing what 
the fault grows from, is not easy ; to take blame as Van Arte- 
velde does, so quietly, indifferent from whence truth comes, so it 
be truth, is a trait seen in the greatest only. 

ELENA. 

Too anxious, Artevelde, 
And too impatient are you grown of late ; 
You used to be so calm and even-minded, 
That nothing rufHed you. 

ARTEVELDE. 

I stand reproved ; 
T is time and circumstance that tries us all ; 
And they that temperately take their start, 
And keep their souls indifferently sedate, 
Through much of good and evil at the last, 
May find the weakness of their hearts thus tried. 
My cause appears more precious than it did 
In its triumphant days. 

I have ventured to be the more lavish of extracts that, although 
12 



134 PAPERS ON LITERATURE AND ART. 

the publication of Philip Van Artevelde at once placed Mr. Taylor 
in the second rank of English poets, a high meed of glory, when 
we remember who compose the first, we seldom now hear the 
poem mentioned, or a line quoted from it, though it is a work 
which might, from all considerations, well make a part of habit- 
ual reading, and habitual thought. Mr. Taylor has since pub- 
lished another dramatic poem, " Edwin the Fair," whose excel- 
lencies, though considerable, are not of the same commanding 
character with those of its predecessor. He was less fortunate in 
his subject. There is no great and noble figure in the foreground 
on which to concentrate the interest, from which to distribute the 
lights. Neither is the spirit of an era seized with the same 
power. The figures are modern English under Saxon names, 
and affect us like a Boston face, tricked out in the appurtenances 
of Goethe's Faust. Such a character as Dunstan's should be sub- 
ordinated in a drama ; its interest is that of intellectual analysis, 
mere feelings it revolts. The main character of the piece should 
attract the feelings, and we should be led to analysis, 10 under- 
stand, not to excuse its life. 

There are, however, fine passages, as profound, refined, and 
expressed with the same unstrained force and purity, as those in 
Philip Van Artevelde. 

Athelwold, another of the tragedies at the head of this notice, 
takes up some of the same characters a few years later. With- 
out poetic depth, or boldness of conception, it yet boasts many 
beauties from the free talent, and noble feelings of the author. 
Athelwold is the best sketch in it, and the chief interest consists 
in his obstinate rejection of Elfrida, whose tardy penitence could 
no way cancel the wrong, her baseness of nature did his faith. 
This is worked up with the more art, that there is justice in her 
plea, but love, shocked from its infinity, could not stop short of 
despair. Here deep feeling rises to poetry. 



THE MODERN DRAMA. 135 

Dunstan and Edgar are well drawn sketches, but show not the 
subtle touches of a life-like treatment. 

This, we should think, as well as the Patrician's Daughter, 
might be a good acting play. 

We come now to the work which affords the most interesting 
theme for this notice, from its novelty, its merits, and its subject, 
which is taken from that portion of English history with which 
we are most closely bound, the time preceding the Common- 
wealth. 

Its author, Mr. Sterling, has many admirers among us, drawn 
to him by his productions, both in prose and verse, which for a 
time enriched the pages of Blackwood. Some of these have been 
collected into a small volume, which has been republished in this 
country. 

These smaller pieces are of very unequal merit ; but the best 
among them are distinguished by vigor of conception and touch, 
by manliness and modesty of feeling, by a depth of experience, 
rare in these days of babbling criticism and speculation. His 
verse does not flow or soar with the highest lyrical inspiration, 
neither does he enrich us by a large stock of original images, but 
for grasp and picturesque presentation of his subject, for frequent 
bold and forceful passages, and the constantly fresh breath of char- 
acter, we know few that could be named with him. The Sexton's 
Daughter is the longest and best known, but not the best of the 
minor poems. It has, however, in a high degree, the merits we 
have mentioned. The yew tree makes a fine centre to the whole 
picture. The tale is told in too many words, the homely verse 
becomes garrulous, but the strong, pure feeling of natural rela- 
tions endears them all. 

His A.phrodite is fitly painted, and we should have dreamed it 
so from all his verse. 

***** 
The high immortal queen from heaven, 
The calm Olympian facej 



136 PAPERS ON LITERATURE AND ART. 

Eyes pure from human tear or smile, 

Yet ruling all on earth, 
And limbs whose garb of golden air 
Was Dawn's primeval birth. 

With tones like music of a lyre, 

Continuous, piercing, low, 
The sovran lips began to speak, 

Spoke on in liquid flow, 
It seemed the distant ocean's voice, 

Brought near and shaped to speech, 
But breathing with a sense beyond 

What words of man may reach. 

Weak child ! Not I the puny power 

Thy wish would have me be, 
A roseleaf floating with the wind 

Upon a summer sea. 
If such thou need'st, go range the fields, 
And hunt the gilded fly, 
And when it mounts above thy head, 
Then lay thee down and die. 

The spells which rule in earth and stars, 

Each mightiest thought that lives, 
Are stronger than the kiss a child 

In sudden fancy gives. 
They cannot change, or fail, or fade, 

Nor deign o'er aught to sway, 
Too weak to suffer and to strive, 

And tired while still 't is day. 

And thou with better wisdom learn 

The ancient lore to scan, 
Which tells that first in Ocean's breast 

Thy rule o'er all began ; 
And know that not in breathless noon 

Upon the glassy main, 
The power was born that taught the world 

To hail her endless reign. 



THE MODERN DRAMA. 137 

The winds were loud, the waves were high, 

In drear eclipse the sun 
Was crouched within the caves of heaven, 

And light had scarce begun ; 
The Earth's green front lay drowned below, 

And Death and Chaos fought 
O'er ell the tumult vast of things 

Not yet to severance brought. 

'T was then that spoke the fateful voice, 

And 'mid the huge uproar, 
Above the dark I sprang to life, 

A good unhoped before. 
My tresses waved along the sky, 

And stars leapt out around, 
And earth beneath my feet arose, 

And hid the pale profound. 

A lamp amid the night, a feast 

That ends the strife of war, 
To wearied mariners a port, 

To fainting limbs a car, 
To exiled men the friendly roof, 

To mourning hearts the lay, 
To him who long has roamed by night 

The sudden dawn of day. 

AH these are mine, and mine the bliss 

That visits breasts in woe, 
And fills with wine the cup that once 

With tears was made to flow. 
Nor question thou the help that comes 

From Aphrodite's hand ; 
For madness dogs the bard who doubts 

Whate'er the gods command. 

Alfred the Harper has the same strong picture and noble beat 
of wing. One line we have heard so repeated by a voice, that 
could give it its full meaning, that we should be very grateful to 
the poet for that alone. 

Still lives the song though Regnar dies. 
12* 



138 PAPERS ON LITERATURE AND ART. 

Daedalus we must quote. 

D^DALUS. 
1. 

Wail foi Daedalus all that is fairest ! 

All that is tuneful in air or wave ! 
Shapes, whose beauty is truest and rarest, 

Haunt with your lamps and spells his gn**' 

2. 
Statues, bend your heads in sorrow, 

Ye that glance 'mid ruins old, 
That know not a past, nor expect a morrow, 

On many a moonlight Grecian wold! 

3. 

By sculptured cave and speaking river, 
Thee, Daedalus, oft the Nymphs recall ; 

The leaves with a sound of winter quiver, 
Murmur thy name, and withering fall. 

4. 
Yet are thy visions in soul the grandest 

Of all that crowd on the tear-dimmed eye, 
Though, Daedalus, thou no more commandest 

New stars to that ever-widening sky. 

5. 

Ever thy phantoms arise before us, 
Our loftier brothers, but one in blood ; 

By bed and table they lord it o'er us, 

With looks of beauty and words of Good. 

6. 
Calmly they show us mankind victorious 

O'er all that's aimless, blind, and base; 
Their presence has made our nature glorious, 

Unveiling our night's illumined face. 

7. 
Thy toil has won them a godlike quiet, 

Thou hast wrought their path to a lovely sphere ; 
Their eyes to peace rebuke our riot, 

And shape us a home of refuge here. 



THE MODERN DRAMA. 139 

8. 
For Daedalus breathed in them his spirit; 

In them their sire his beauty sees ; 
We too, a younger brood, inherit 

The gifts and blessing bestowed on these. 

9. 

But ah ! their wise and graceful seeming 

Recalls the more that the sage is gone; 
Weeping we wake from deceitful dreaming, 

And find our voiceless chamber lone. 

10. 
Daedalus, thou from the twilight fleest, 

Which thou with visions hast made so bright ; 
And when no more those shapes thou seest, 

Wanting thine eye they lose their light. 

11. 
E'en in the noblest of Man's creations, 

Those fresh worlds round this old of ours, 
When the seer is gone, the orphaned nations 

See but the tombs of perished powers. 

12. 
Wail for Daedalus, Earth and Ocean ! 

Stars and Sun, lament for him ! 
Ages, quake in strange commotion ! 

All ye realms of life be dim ! 

13. 

Wail for Daedalus, awful voices, 

From earth's deep centre Mankind appall! 
Seldom ye sound, and then Death rejoices, 

For he knows that then the mightiest fall. 

Also the following, whose measure seems borrowed from Goethe, 
and is worthy of its source. We insert a part it. 

THE WOODED MOUNTAINS. 

Woodland mountains in your leafy walks, 

Shadows of the Past and Future blend ; 
'Mid your verdant windings flits or stalks 

Many a loved and disembodied friend. 



140 PAPERS ON LITERATURE AND ART. 

With your oaks and pine-trees, ancient brood, 

Spirits rise above the wizard soil, 
And with these I rove amid the wood ; 

Man may dream on earth no less than toil. 

Shapes that seem my kindred meet the ken; 

Gods and heroes glimmer through the shade ; 
Ages long gone by from haunts of men 

Meet me here in rocky dell and glade. 

There the Muses, touched with gleams of light, 
Warble yet from yonder hill of trees, 

And upon the huge and mist-clad height 
Fancy sage a clear Olympus sees. 

'Mid yon utmost peaks the elder powers 
Still unshaken hold their fixed abode, 

Fates primeval throned in airy towers, 
That with morning sunshine never glowed. 

Deep below, amid a hell of rocks, 
Lies the Cyclops, and the Dragon coils, 

Heaving with the torrent's weary shocks, 
That round the untrodden region boils. 

But more near to where our thought may climb, 

In a mossy, leaf-clad, Druid ring, 
Three gray shapes, prophetic Lords of Time, 

Homer, Dante, Shakspeare, sit and sing.. 

Each in his turn his descant frames aloud, 
Mingling new and old in ceaseless birth, 

While the Destinies hear amid their cloud, 
And accordant mould the flux of earth. 

Oh ! ye trees that wave and glisten round, 
Oh ! ye waters gurgling down the dell, 

Pulses throb in every sight and sound, 
Living Nature's more than magic spell. 

Soon amid the vista still and dim, 

Knights, whom youth's high heart forgetteth not, 
Each with scars and shadowy helmet grim, 

Amadis, Orlando, Launcelot. 



THE MODERN DRAMA. J4J 

Stern they pass along the twilight green, 

While within the tangled wood's recess 
Some lorn damsel sits, lamenting keen, 

With a voice of tuneful amorousness. 

Clad in purple weed, with pearly crown, 

And with golden hairs that waving play, 
Fairest earthly sight for King and Clown, 

Oriana or Angelica. 

But in sadder nooks of deeper shade, 

Forms more subtle lurk from human eye, 
Each cold Nymph, the rock or fountain's maid, 

Crowned with leaves that sunbeams never dry. 

And while on and on I wander, still 

Passed the plashing streamlet's glance and foam, 

Hearing oft the wild-bird pipe at will, 
Still new openings lure me still to roam. 

In this hollow smooth by May-tree walled, 

White and breathing now with fragrant flower, 
Lo ! the fairy tribes to revel called, 

Start in -view as fades the evening hour. 

Decked in rainbow roof of gossamer, 

And with many a sparkling jewel bright, 
Rose-leaf faces, dew-drop eyes are there, 

Each with gesture fine of gentle sprite. 

Gay they woo, and dance, and feast, and sing, 

Elfin chants and laughter fill the dell, 
As if every leaf around should ring 

With its own aerial emerald bell. 

But for man 'tis ever sad to see 

Joys like his that he must not partake, 
'Mid a separate world, a people's glee, 

In whose hearts his heart no joy could wake. 

Fare ye well, ye tiny race of elves ; 

May the moonbeam ne'er behold your tomb ; 
Ye are happiest childhood's other selves, 

Bright to you be always evening's gloom. 



142 PAPERS ON LITERATURE AND ART. 

And thou, mountain-realm of ancient wood, 
Where my feet and thoughts have strayed so long, 

Now thy old gigantic brotherhood 
With a ghostlier vastness round me throng. 

Mound, and cliff, and crag, that none may scale 
With your serried trunks and wrestling boughs, 

Like one living presence ye prevail, 
And o'erhang me with Titanian brows. 

In your Being's mighty depth of Power, 

Mine is lost and melted all away. 
In your forms involved I seem to tower, 

And with you am spread in twilight grey. 

In this knotted stem whereon I lean, 

And the dome above of countless leaves, 
Twists and swells, and frowns a life unseen, 

That my life with it resistless weaves. 

Yet, O nature, less is all of thine 
Than thy borrowings from our human breast ; 

Thou, O God, hast made thy child divine, 
And for him this world thou hallowest. 

The Rose and the Gauntlet we much admire as a ballad, an.l 
the tale is told in fewest words, and by a single picture ; but we 
have not room for it here. In Lady Jane Grey, though this 
again is too garrulous, the picture of the princess at the begin- 
ning is fine, as she sits in the antique casement of the rich old 
room. 

The lights through the painted glass 

Fall with fondest brightness o'er the form 

Of her who sits, the chamber's lovely dame, 
And her pale forehead in the light looks warm, 

And all these colors round her whiteness flame. 

Young is she, scarcely passed from childhood's years, 

With grave, soft face, where thoughts and smiles may play, 

And unalarmed by guilty aims or fears, 
Serene as meadow flowers may meet the day. 



THE MODERN DRAMA. 143 

No guilty pang she knows, though many a dread 
Hangs threatening o'er her in the conscious air, 

And 'mid the beams from that bright casement shut, 
A twinkling crown foreshows a near despair. 

The quaint conciseness of this last line pleases me. 

He always speaks in marble words of Greece. But I must 
make no more quotations. 

Some part of his poem on Shakspeare is no unfit prelude to a 
few remarks on his own late work. With such a sense of great- 
ness none could wholly fail. 

With meaning won from him for ever glows 

Each air that England feels, and star it knows ; 

And gleams from spheres he first conjoined to earth 

Are blent with rays of each new morning's birth, 

Amid the sights and tales of common things, 

Leaf, flower, and bird, and wars, and deaths of kings, 

Of shore, and sea, and nature's daily round 

Of life that tills, and tombs that load the ground, 

His visions mingle, swell, command, pass by, 

And haunt with living presence heart and eye, 

And tones from him, by other bosoms caught, 

Awaken flush and stir of mounting thought, 

And the long sigh, and deep, impassioned thrill, 

Rouse custom's trance, and spur the faltering will. 

Above the goodly land, more his than ours, 

He sits supreme enthroned in skyey towers. 

And sees the heroic blood of his creation 

Teach larger life to his ennobled nation. 

O ! shaping brain ! O ! flashing fancy's hues ! 

O ! boundless heart kept fresh by pity's dews ! 

O ! wit humane and blythe ! O ! sense sublime 

For each dim oracle of mantled Time ! 

Transcendant form of man ! in whom we read, 

Mankind's whole tale of Impulse, Thought, and Deed. 

Such is his ideal of the great dramatic poet. It would not be 
fair to measure him, or any man, by his own ideal ; that affords a 
standard of spiritual and intellectual progress, with which the ex- 



144 PAPERS ON LITERATURE AND ART. 

eoutive powers may not correspond. A clear eye may be asso- 
ciated with a feeble hand, or the reverse. The mode of measure- 
ment proposed by the great thinker of our time is not inapplicable. 
First, show me what aim a man proposes to himself; next, with 
what degree of earnestness he strives to attain it. In both regards 
we can look at Mr. Sterling's work with pleasure and admiration. 
He exhibits to us a great crisis, with noble figures to represent its 
moving springs. His work is not merely the plea for a principle, 
or the exposition of a thought, but an exhibition of both at work 
in life. He opens the instrument and lets us see the machinery 
without stopping the music. The progress of interest in the piece 
is imperative, the principal character well brought out, the style 
clear and energetic, the tone thrcughout is of a manly dignity, 
worthy great times. Yet its merit is of a dramatic sketch, rather 
than a drama. The forms want the roundness, the fulness of life, 
the thousand charms of spontaneous expression. In this last partic- 
ular Sterling is as far inferior to Taylor, as Taylor to Shakspeare. 
His characters, like Miss Baillie's or Talfourd's, narrate rather 
than express their life. Not elaborately, not pedantically, but yet 
the effect is that, while they speak we look on them as past, and 
Sterling's view of them interests us more than themselves. In 
his view of relations again we must note his inferiority to Taylor, 
who in this respect is the only contemporary dramatist on whom 
we can look with complacency. Taylor's characters really meet, 
really bear upon one another. In contempt and hatred, or es- 
teem, reverence, and melting tenderness, they challenge, bend, 
and transfuse one another. 

Strafford never alters, never is kindled by or kindles the life of 
any other being, never breathes the breath of the moment. Be- 
fore us, throughout the play, is the view of his greatness taken by 
the mind of the author ; we are not really made to feel it by those 
around him ; it is echoed from their lips, not from their lives. 
Lady Carlisle is the only personage, except Strafford, that is 



THE MODERN DRAMA. 145 

brought out into much relief. Everard is only an accessory, and 
the king, queen, and parliamentary leaders, drawn with a few 
strokes to give them their historical position. Scarcely more can 
be said of Hollis ; some individual action is assigned him, but not 
•jo as to individualize his character. The idea of the relation at 
this ominous period between Strafford and Lady Carlisle is noble. 
In these stern times he has put behind him the flowers of tender- 
ness, and the toys of passion. 

Lady, believe me, that I loved you truly, 
Still think of you with wonder and delight, 
Own you the liveliest, noblest heart of woman 
This age, or any, knows ; but for love ditties 
And amorous toys, and kisses ocean-deep, 
Strafford and this old Earth are all too sad. 

But when the lady had a soul to understand the declaration, 
andshow herself worthy of his friendship, there is a hardness in 
his action towards her, a want of softness and grace, how different 
from Van Artevelde's : 

My Adriana, victim that thou art. 

The nice point indeed, of giving the hero manly firmness, and 
an even stern self-sufficiency, without robbing him of the beauty 
of gentle love, was touched with rare success in Van Artevelde. 
Common men may not be able to show firmness and persistency, 
without a certain hardness and glassiness of expression ; but we 
expect of the hero, that he should combine the softness with the 
constancy of Hector. 

This failure is the greater here, that we need a private tie to 
Strafford to give his fall the deepest tragic interest. 

Lady Carlisle is painted with some skill and spirit. The name 
given her by St. John of "the handsome vixen," and the willing- 
ness shown by her little page to die, rather than see her after fail- 
ing to deliver her letter, joined with her own appearance, mark 
13 



146 PAPERS ON LITERATURE AND ART. 

her very well. The following is a prose sketch of her as seen in 
common life. 

Sir Toby Matthew's Portrait op Lucy Percy, Countess op Carlisle. 

" She is of too high a mind and dignity, not only to seek, but almost to wish 
the friendship of any creature : they, whom she is pleased to choose, are such 
as are of the most eminent condition, both for power and employment ; not 
with any design towards her own particular, either of advantage or curiosity, 
but her nature values fortunate persons as virtuous. She prefers the conversa- 
tion of men to that of women ; not but she can talk on the fashions with her 
female friends, but she is too soon sensible that she can set them as she wills ; 
that pre-eminence shortens all equality. She converses with those who are 
most distinguished for their conversational powers. 

" Of love freely will she discourse, listen to all its faults, and mark all its 
power. She cannot herself love in earnest, but she will play with love, and will 
take a deep interest for persons of condition and celebrity." — See Life of Pym; 
in Lardner Cabinet CyclapcBdia, Vol. xci., p. 213. 

The noblest trait, given her in the play, is the justice she is 
able to do Charles, after his treachery has consigned Strafford to 
the Tower. 

LADY CARLISLE. 

And he betrayed you. 

STRAFFORD. 

He ! it cannot be, 
There's not a minion in his court so vile, 
Holland nor Jermyn, would deceive a trust 
Like that I placed in him, nor would belie 
So seeming heart felt words as those he spake. 

LADY CARLISLE. 

He's not entirely vile, and yet he did it 

This, seen in unison with her outpouring of contempt upon the 
king when present, makes out a character. As a whole, that 
given her by the poet is not only nobler than the one assigned her 
in history, but opposed to it in a vital point. 

The play closes after Strafford has set forth for the scaffold 



THE MODERN DRAMA. 147 

with the ejaculation from her left in the Tower, where she has 
waited on his last moments, 

" Alone, henceforth forever !" 
While history makes her transfer her attachment to Pym, who 
must have been, in her eyes, Strafford's murderer, on the score 
of her love of intellectual power, in which all other considerations 
were merged. This is a character so odious, and in a woman, so 
unnatural, that we are tempted rather to suppose it was hatred of 
the king for his base and treacherous conduct towards Strafford, 
that induced her to betray to Pym the counsels of the court, as 
the best means of revenge. Such a version of her motives would 
not be inconsistent with the character assigned her in the play. 
It would be making her the agent to execute her own curse, so 
eLvquently spoken after she finds the king willing to save himself 
by the sacrifice of Strafford's life. 

KING CHARLES. 

The woman's mad; her passion braves the skies! 

LADY CARLISLE. 

I brave them not ; I but invoke their justice 
To rain hot curses on a tyrant's head ; 
Henceforth I set myself apart for mischief, 
To find and prompt men capable of hate, 
Until some dagger, steeled in Strafford's blood, 
Knocks at the heart of Strafford's murderer. 

KING CHARLES. 

His murderer ! O God ! — no, no, — not that ! 

{Sinks lack irjo a seat) 

LADY CARLISLE. 

And here I call on all the powers above us 
To aid the deep damnation of my curse, 
And make this treason to the noblest man, 
That moves alive within our English seas, 
Fatal to him and all his race, whose baseness 
Destroys a worth it ne'er could understand. 
Stars in your glory, vital air and 6un, 



148 PAPERS ON LITERATURE AND ART. 

And thou, dark earth, our cradle, nurse, and grave, 

And more than all, free truth and penal justice, 

Conspire with all your dreadful influence 

Against his blood, whose crime ye now behold ! 

Make him a byeword, and a name of woe, 

A conquered warrior, and a throneless outcast, 

To teach all kings the law of evil power, 

Till by an end more friendless and abhorred 

Than his great victim's, and with heavier pain, 

Let him slink off to a detested grave ! 

And now I give your majesty leave to go, 

And may you carry from my house away, 

That fixed incurable ulcer of the heart, 

Which I have helped your thoughts to fasten there. 

If these burning words had as much power to kindle her own 
heart, as they must that of the hearer, we only' realize our antici- 
pations, when we find her sending to the five members the news 
of the intention of Charles to arrest them, thus placing him in a 
position equally ridiculous and miserable, having incurred all the 
odium of this violent transaction to no purpose. That might well 
be a proud moment of gratified vengeance to her, when he stood 
amid the sullen and outraged parliament, baffled like a schoolboy, 
loathed as a thief, exclaiming, " The birds are flown," and all 
owing to " the advices of the honorable Lady Carlisle." 

The play opens with Strafford's return to London. He is made 
to return in rather a different temper from what he really did, not 
only trusting the king, but in his own greatness fearless of the 
popular hatred. The opening scenes are very good, compact, 
well wrought, and showing at the very beginning the probable 
fortunes of the scene, by making the characters the agents of 
their own destinies. A weight of tragedy is laid upon the heart ; 
and at the same time we are inspired with deep interest as to how 
it shall be acted out. 

Strafford appears before us as he does in history, a grand and 
melancholy figure, whose dignity lay in his energy of will, and 



THE MODERN DRAMA. 149 

large scope of action, not in his perception of principles, or virtue 
in carrying them out. For his faith in the need of absolute sway 
to control the herd, does not merit the name of a principle. 

In my thought, the promise of success 
Grows to the self-same stature as the need, 
Which is gigantic. There's a king to guide, 
Three realms to save, a nation to control, 
And by subduing to make blest beyond 
Their sottish dreams of lawless liberty. 
This to fulfil Strafford has pledged his soul 
In the unfaltering hands of destiny. 

Nor can we fail to believe, that the man of the world might 
sincerely take this view of his opponents. 

No wonder they whose life is all deception, 
A piety that, like a sheep-skin drum, 
Is loud because 'tis hollow, — thus can move 
Belief in others by their swollen pretences. 
Why, man, it is their trade ; they do not stick 
To cozen themselves, and will they stop at you 1 

The court and council scenes are good. The materials are 
taken from history, with Shakspearean adherence to the record, 
but they are uttered in masculine cadences, sinewy English, wor- 
thy this great era in the life of England. 

The king and queen and sycophants of the court are too caie- 
essly drawn. Such unmitigated baseness and folly, are unbear- 
able in poetry. The master invests his worst characters with 
redeeming traits, or at least, touches them with a human interest, 
that prevents their being objects of disgust rather than contempt 
or aversion. This is the poetic gift, to penetrate to the truth be- 
low the fact. We need to hear the excuses men make to them- 
selves for their worthlessness. 

The council of the parliamentary leaders is far better. Here 
the author speaks his natural language from the lips of grave en- 
thusiastic men. Pym's advice to his daughter is finely worded 
13* 



150 PAPERS ON LITERATURE AND ART. 

and contains truths, which, although they have been so often ex« 
pressed, are not like to find so large reception, as to dispense with 
new and manifold utterance. 

The Lord has power 
To guard his own : pray, Mary, pray to Him, 
Nor fear what man can do. A rule there is 
Above all circumstance, a current deep 
Beneath all fluctuations. This who knows, 
Though seeming weakest, firmly as the sun 
Walks in blind paths where earthly strongest fall, 
Reason is God's own voice to man, ordains 
All holy duties, and all truth inspires : 
And he who fails, errs not by trusting it, 
But deafening to the sound his ear, from dread 
Of the stern roar it speaks with. O, my child, 
Pray still for guidance, and be sure 'twill come. 
Lift up your heart upon the knees of God ; 
Losing yourself, your smallness, and your darkness, 
In his great light, who fills and moves the world, 
Who hath alone the quiet of perfect motion — 
Sole quiet, not mere death. 

The speech of Vane is nobly rendered. 

The conversations of the populace are tolerably well done. 
Only the greatest succeed in these ; nobody except Goethe in 
modern times. Here they give, not the character of the people, 
but the spirit of the time, playing in relation to the main action 
the part of chorus. 

SECOND WOMAN. 

There's Master St. John has a tongue 
That threshes like a flail. 

THIRD WOMAN. 

And Master Fiennes 
That's a true lamb ! He'd roast alive the Bishop. 

CITIZEN. 

I was close by the coach, and with my nose 



THE MODERN DRAMA. 151 

Upon the door, I called out, Down with Strafford ! 
And then just so he fixed his eyes on mine, 
And something seemed to choke me in the throat; 
In truth, I think it must have been the devil! 

THIRD CITIZEN. 

I saw him as he stept out of the House, 
And then his face was dark, but very quiet ; 
It seemed like looking down tne dusky mouth 
Of a great cannon. 

Everard says with expressive bitterness as they shout " Down 

with Strafford," 

I've heard this noise so often, that it seems 
As natural as the howling of the wind. 

And again — 

For forty years I've studied books and men, 

But ne'er till these last days have known a jot 

Of the true secret madness in mankind. 

This morn the whispers leapt from each to each, 

Like a petard alight, which every man 

Feared might explode in his own. hands, and therefore 

Would haste to pass it onward to his friend. 

Even in our piping times of peace, nullification and the Rhode 
Island difficulties have given us specimens of the process of fer- 
mentation, the more than Virgilian growth of Rumor. 

The description of the fanatic preacher by Everard is very 
good. The poor secretary, not placed in the prominent rank to 
suffer, yet feeling all that passes, through his master, finds vent to 
his grief, not in mourning, but a strong causticity : 

The sad fanatic preacher, 
In whom one saw, by glancing througi. the eyes, 
The last grey curdling dregs of human joy, 
Dropped sadden sparks that kindled where they fell. 

Strafford draws the line between his own religion and that ot 



152 PAPERS ON LITERATURE AND ART 

the puritans, as it seemed to him, with noble phrase in his last ad- 
vices to his son. 

Say it has ever been his father's mind, 

That perfect reason, justice, government, 

Are the chief attributes of Him who made, 

And who sustains the world, in whose full being, 

Wisdom and power are one ; and I, his creature, 

Would fain have gained authority and rule, 

To make the imagined order in my soul 

Supreme o'er all, the proper good of man. 

But Him to love who shaped us, and whose breast 

Is the one home of all things, with a passion 

Electing Him amid all other beings, 

As if he were beside them, not their all, 

This is the snug and dozing deliration 

Of men, who filch from woman what is worst, 

And cannot see the good. Of such beware. 

This is the nobler tone of Strafford's spirit.* That more hab- 
itual to him is heard in his presumptuous joy before entering the 
parliament, into which he went as a conqueror, and came out a 
prisoner. His confidence is not noble to us, it is not that of Bru- 
tus or Van Artevelde, who, knowing what is prescribed by the 
law of right within the breast, can take no other course but that, 
whatever the consequences ; neither like the faith of Julius Cae- 
sar or Wallenstein in their star, which, though less pure, is not 
without religion ; but it is the presumption of a strong character 

* His late biographer says well in regard to the magnanimity of his later days, 
of so much nobler a tone than his general character would lead us to expect. 
" It is a mean as well as a hasty judgment, which would attribute this to any 
unworthy compromise with his real nature. It is probably a juster and more 
profound view of it, to say that, into a few of the later weeks of his life, new 
knowledge had penetrated from the midst of the breaking of his fortunes. It 
was well and beautifully said by a then living poet, 

1 The soul's dark cottage, battered and decayed, 
Lets in new light through chinks that time has made.' " 

Forsler's Life of Strafford, Lai dner's Cabinet Cyclopaedia. 



THE MODERN DRAMA. 153 

which, though its head towers above those of its companions when 
they are on the same level, yet has not taken a sufficiently high 
platform, to see what passes around or above it. Strafford's 
strength cannot redeem his infatuation, while he struggles ; van- 
quished, not overwhelmed, he is a majestic figure, whose features* 
are well marked in various passages. 

Compared with him, whom I for eighteen years 

Have seen familiar as my friend, all men 

Seem but as chance-born flies, and only he 

Great Nature's chosen and all-gifted son. 

■j"Van Artevelde also bears testimony to the belief of the author, 
that familiarity breeds no contempt, but the reverse in the service 
of genuine nobility. A familiarity of eighteen years will not 
make any but a stage hero, other than a hero to his valet de 
chambre. 

King Charles says, 

To pass the bill, — 
Under his eye, with that fixed quiet look 
Of imperturbable and thoughtful greatness, 
I cannot do it. 

Strafford himself says, on the final certainty of the king's de- 
sertion, 

Dear Everard, peace! for there is nothing here 
I have not weighed before, and made my own. 

* " A poet, who was present, exclaimed, 
On thy brow 
Sate terror mixed with wisdom, and at once 
Saturn and Hermes in thy countenance." 

Life of Strafford, p. 338. 
Certainly there could not be a more pointed and pregnant account given of 
the man than is suggested by this last line, 
r That with familiarity respect 
Doth slacken, is a word of common use; 
I never found it so. 

Philip Van Artevelde, 2d Part, p. '29. 



154 PAPERS ON LITERATURE AND ART. 

And this, no doubt, was true, in a sense. Historians, finding 
that Strafford expressed surprise, and even indignation, that the 
king had complied with Strafford's own letter releasing him from 
all obligation to save his life, have intimated that the letter was 
written out of policy. But this is a superficial view; it produces 
very different results from giving up all to another to see him take 
it ; and, though Strafford must have known Charles's weakness 
too well to expect any thing good from him, yet the consummation 
must have produced fresh emotion, for a strong character cannot 
be prepared for the conduct of a weak one ; there is always in 
dishonour somewhat unexpected and incredible to one incapable 
of it. 

The speeches in parliament are well translated from the page 
of history. The poet, we think, has improved upon it in Straf- 
ford's mention of his children ; it has not the theatrical tone of 
the common narrative, and is, probably, nearer truth, as it is more 
consistent with the rest of his deportment. 

He has made good use of the fine anecdote of the effect pro- 
duced on Pym by meeting Strafford's eye at the close of one of 
his most soaring passages. 

PYM. 

The King is King, but as he props the State, 

The State a legal and compacted bond, 

Tying us all in sweet fraternity, 

And that loosed off by fraud ful creeping hand, 

Or cut and torn by lawless violence, 

There is no King because the State is gone; 

And in the cannibal chaos that remains 

Each man is sovereign of himself alone. 

Shall then a drunken regicidal blow 

Be paid by forfeit of the driveller's head, 

And he go free, who, slaying Law itself, 

Murders all royalty and all subjection 1 

He who, with all the radiant attributes 

That most, save goodness, can adorn a man, 



THE MODERN DRAMA. 155 

Would turn his kind to planless brutishness. 
His knavery soars, indeed, and strikes the stars, 
Yet is worse knavery than the meanest felon's. 

(Strafford fixes his eyes on Pym, who hesitates.) 
Oh ! no, my Lords, Oh ! no, 
(Aside to Hampden.) His eye confounds me ; he* was once my 

friend. 
(Aloud.) Oh ! no, my Lords, the very self-same rule, &c. 

The eloquence of this period could not be improved upon ; but 
it is much to select from and use its ebullitions with the fine effect 
we admire in this play. Whatever view be taken of Strafford, 
whether as condemnatory as the majority of writers popular among 
us, the descendants of the puritans, would promote, or that more 
lenient and discriminating, brought out in this play, for which 
abundant grounds may be discovered by those who will seek, we 
cannot view him at this period but with the interest of tragedy as 
of one suffering unjustly. For however noble the eloquence of 
the parliamentary leaders in appealing to a law above the law, to 
an eternal justice in the breast, which afforded sufficient sanction 
to the desired measure, it cannot but be seen, at this distance of 
time, that this reigned not purely in their own breasts, that his 
doom, though sought by them from patriotic, not interested, mo- 
tives, was, in itself, a measure of expediency- He was the vic- 
tim, because the most dreaded foe, because they could not go on 
with confidence, while the only man lived, who could and would 
sustain Charles in his absurd and wicked policy. Thus, though 

* Through the whole of the speech Strafford is described to have been closely 
and earnestly watching Pym, when the latter suddenly turning, met the fixed 
and faded eyes and haggard features of his early associate, and a rush of feel- 
ings from other days, so fearfully contrasting the youth and friendship of (ha 
past with the love-poisoned hate of the present, and the mortal agony impend- 
ing in the future, for a moment deprived the patriot of self-possession. " His 
papers he looked on," says Baillie, " but they could not help him, so he behoov- 
ed to pass them." For a moment only ; suddenly recovering his dignity and 
self-command, he told the court, &C. Life of Pym, Cabinet Cydopeedia. 



156 PAPERS ON LITERATURE AND ART. 

he might deserve that the people on whom he trampled should 
rise up to crush him, that the laws he had broken down should 
rear new and higher walls to imprison him, though the shade of 
Eliot called for vengeance on the counsellor who alone had so 
long saved the tyrant from a speedier fall, and the victims of his 
own oppressions echoed with sullen murmur to the " silver trum- 
pet" call,* yet the greater the peculiar offences of this man, the 
more need that his punishment should have been awarded in an 
absolutely pure spirit. And this it was not ; it may be respected 
as an act of just retribution, but not of pure justice. 

Men who had such a cause to maintain, as his accusers had, 
should deserve the praise awarded by Wordsworth to him who, 

In a state where men are tempted still 
To evil for a guard against worse ill, 
And what in quality or act is best 
Doth seldom on a right foundation rest, 
Yet fixes good on good alone, and owes 
To virtue every triumph that he knows. 

The heart swells against Strafford as we read the details of 
his policy. Even allowing that his native temper, prejudices of 
birth, and disbelief in mankind, really inclined him to a despotic 
government, as the bad best practicable, that his early espousal 
of the popular side was only a stratagem to terrify the court, and 
that he was thus, though a deceiver, no apostate, yet, he had 
been led, from whatever motives, to look on that side ; his great 
intellect was clear of sight, the front presented by better princi- 
ples in that time commanding. We feel that he was wilful in 
the course he took, and self-aggrandizement his principal, if not 
his only motive. We share the hatred of his time, as we see 
him so triumphant in his forceful, wrongful measures. But we 
would not have had him hunted down with such a hue and cry, 

* " I will not repeat, Sirs, what you have heard from that ailver trumpet" 
One of the parliament speaking of Rudyard. 



THE MODERN DRAMA. 157 

that the tones of defence had really no chance to be heard. We 
would not have had papers stolen, and by a son from a father 
who had entrusted him with a key, to condemn him. And what 
a man was this thief, one whose high enthusiastic hope never 
paused at good, but ever rushed onward to the best. 

Who would outbid the market of the world. 
And seek a holier than a common prize, 
And by the unworthy lever of to-day 
Ope the strange portals of a better morn. 
***** 

Begin to-day, nor end till evil sink 

In its due grave ; and if at once we may not 

Declare the greatness of the work we plan, 

Be sure, at least, that ever in our eyes 

It stand complete before us, as a dome r . 

Of light beyond this gloom; a house of stars, 

Encompassing these dusky tents ; a thing 

Absolute, close to all, though seldom seen, 

Near as our hearts, and perfect as the heavens. 

Be this our aim and model, and our hands 

Shall not wax faint until the work is done. 

He is not the first, who, by looking too much at the stars has 
lost the eye for severe fidelity to a private trust. He thought 
himself " obliged in conscience to impart the paper to Master 
Pym." Who that looks at the case by the code of common rec- 
titude can think it was ever his to impart ? 

What monstrous measures appear the arbitrary construction 
put on the one word in the minutes which decided the fate of 
Strafford, the freeing the lords of council from the oath of secrecy 
under whose protection he had spoken there, the conduct of the 
House towards Lord Digby, when he declared himself not satis- 
fied that the prisoner could with justice be declared guilty of trea- 
son ; the burning his speech' by the common hangman when he 
dared print it, to make known the reasons of his course to the 
world, when placarded as Sti affbrdian, held up as a mark for 
14 



15& PAPERS ON LITERATURE AND ART. 

popular rage for speaking it.* Lord Digby was not a man of 
honour, but they did not know that, or if they did, it had nothing 
to do with his right of private judgment. What could Strafford, 
what could Charles do more high-handed ? If they had violated 
the privileges of parliament, the more reason parliament should 
respect their privileges, above all the privilege of the prisoner, to 
be supposed innocent until proved guilty. The accusers, obliged 
to set aside rule, and appeal to the very foundations of equity, 
could only have sanctioned such a course by the religion and 
pure justice of their proceedings. Here the interest of the ac- 
2users made them not only demand, but insist upon, the condem- 
nation ; the cause was prejudged by the sentiment of the people, 
and the resentments of the jury, and the proceedings conducted, 
beside, with the most scandalous disregard to the sickness and 
other disadvantageous circumstances of Strafford. He was called 
on to answer " if he will come," just at the time of a most dan- 
gerous attack from his cruel distemper ; if he will not come, the 
cause is still to be pushed forward. He was denied the time and 
means he needed to collect his evidence. The aid to be given 
him by counsel, after being deprived of his chief witness " by a 
master stroke of policy," was restricted within narrow limits. 
While he prepared his answers, in full court, for he was never 
allowed to retire, to the points of accusation, vital in their import, 
requiring the closest examination, those present talked, laughed, 
ate, lounged about. None of this disturbed his magnanimous pa- 
tience ; his conduct indeed is so noble, through the whole period, 
that he and his opponents change places in our minds ;. at the 
time, he seems the princely deer, and they the savage hounds. f 

* See Parliamentary History, volume ix. 

t Who can avoid a profound feeling, not only of compassion, but sympathy, 

when he reads of Strafford obliged to kneel in Westminster Hall. True, he 

would, if possible, have brought others as low ; but there is a deep pathos in the 

contrast of his then, and his former state, best 6hown by the symbol of such an 






THE MODERN DRAMA. 159 

Well, it is all the better for the tragedy, but as we read the sub- 
lime appeals of Pym to a higher state of being, we cannot but 
wish that all had been done in accordance with them. The art 
and, zeal, with which the condemnation of Strafford was obtained, 
have had high praise as statesmanlike ; we would have wished 
for them one so high as to preclude this. 

No doubt great temporary good was effected for England by 
the death of Strafford, but the permanence of good is ever in pro- 
portion with the purity of the means used to obtain it. This act 
would have been great for Strafford, for it was altogether in ac- 
cordance with his views. He met the parliament ready to dc 
battle to the death, and might would have been right, had he made 
rules for the lists ; but they proposed a different rule for their gov- 
ernment, and by that we must judge them. Admit the story of 
Vane's pilfering the papers not to be true, that the minutes were 
obtained some other way. This measure, on the supposition of 
its existence, is defended by those who defend the rest. 

Strafford would certainly have come off with imprisonment and 
degradation from office, had the parliament deemed it safe to leave 
him alive. When we consider this, when we remember the threat 
of Pym, at the time of his deserting the popular party, " You have 
left us, but I will never leave you while your head is on your 
shoulders," we see not, setting aside the great results of the act, 
and looking at it by its merits alone, that it differs from the ad- 
ministration of Lynch law in some regions of our own country. 

act. Just so we read of Bonaparte's green coat being turned at St. Helena, af- 
ter it had faded on the right side. He who had overturned the world, to end 
with having his old coat turned ! There is something affecting, Belisarius-like 
in the picture. When Warren Hastings knelt in Westminster Hall, the chatter- 
ing but pleasant Miss Burney tells us, Wyndham, for a moment struck, half 
shrunk from the business of prosecuting him. At such a sight, whispers in 
every breast the monition, Had I been similarly tempted, had I not fallen as low 
or lower 1 



160 PAPERS ON LITERATURE AND ART. 

Lynch ]•'•« *dth us, has often punished the gamester and the rob- 
ber, whom it was impossible to convict by *he usual legal process ; 
the evil in it is, that it cannot be depended upon, but, while with 
one hand it punishes a villain, administers with the other as sum- 
mary judgment on the philanthropist, according as the moral sen 
timent or prejudice may be roused in the popular breast. 

We have spoken disparagingly of the capacities of the drama 
for representing what is peculiar in our own day, but, for such a 
work as this, presenting a great crisis with so much clearness, 
force, and varied beauty, we can only be grateful, and ask for 
more acquaintance with the same mind, whether through the 
drama or in any other mode. 

Copious extracts have been given, in the belief that thus, bet- 
ter than by any interpretation or praise of ours, attention would 
be attracted, and a wider perusal ensured to Mr. Sterling's 
works. 

In his mind there is a combination of reverence for the Ideal, 
with a patient appreciation of its slow workings in the actual 
world, that is rare in our time. .He "looks religiously, he speaks 
philosophically, nor these alone, but with that other faculty which 
he himself so well describes. 

You bear a brain 
Discursive, open, generally wise, 
But missing ever that excepted point 
That gives each thing and hour a special oneness. 
The little key-hole of the infrangible door, 
The instant on which hangs eternity, 
And not in the dim past and empty future, 
Waste fields for abstract notions. 

Such is the demonology of the man of the world. It may rule 
in accordance with the law of right, but where it does not, the 
strongest man may lose the battle, and so it was with Strafford. 



DIALOGUE 

CONTAINING SUNDRY GLOSSES ON POETIC TEXTS. 

Scene is in a chamber, in the upper story of a city boarding house. The room 
is small, but neat and furnished with some taste. There are books, a few 
flowers, even a chamber organ. On the wall hangs a fine engraving from 
one of Dominichino's pictures. The curtain is drawn up, and shows the 
moonlight falling on the roofs and chimnies of the city and the distant water, 
on whose bridges threads of light burn dully. 

To Aglauron enter Laurie. A kindly greeting having been 
interchanged, 

Laurie. It is a late hour, I confess, for a visit, but coming 
home I happened to see the light from your window, and the re- 
membrance of our pleasant evenings here in other days came so 
strongly over me, that I could not help trying the door. 

Aglauron. I do not now see you here so often, that I could 
afford to reject your visits at any hour. 

L. (Seating himself, looks round for a moment with an ex- 
pression of some sadness.) All here looks the same, your fire 
burns bright, the moonlight I see you like to have come in as 
formerly, and we,— ?we are not changed, Aglauron ? 

A. I am not. 

L. Not towards me ? 

A. You have elected other associates, as better pleasing or 
more useful to you than I. Our intercourse no longer ministers 
to my thoughts, to my hopes. To think of you with that habit- 
ual affection, with that lively interest I once did, would be as if 
the mutilated soldier should fix his eyes constantly on the einptv 
14* (161) 



162 PAPERS ON LITERATURE AND ART. 

sleeve of his coat. My right hand being taken from me, I use 
my left. 

L. You speak coldly, Aglauron ; you cannot doubt that my 
friendship for you is the same as ever. 

A. You should not reproach me for speaking coldly. You 
have driven me to subdue my feelings by reason, and the tone of 
reason seems cold because it is calm. 

You say your friendship is the same. Your thoughts of your 
friend are the same, your feelings towards him are not. Your 
feelings flow now in other channels. 

L. Am I to blame for that ? 

A. Surely not. No one is to blame ; if either were so, it 
would be I, for not possessing more varied powers to satisfy the 
variations and expansions of your nature. 

L. But have I not seemed heartless to you at times ? 

A. In the moment, perhaps, but quiet thought always showed 
me the difference between heartlessness and the want of a deep 
heart. 

Nor do I think this will eventually be denied you. You are 
generous, you love truth. Time will make you less restless, be- 
cause less bent upon yourself, will give depth and steadfastness 
to that glowing heart. Tenderness will then come of itself. 
You will take upon you the bonds of friendship less easily and 
knit them firmer. 

L. And you will then receive me ? 

A. I or some other ; it matters not. 

L. Ah ! you have become indifferent to me. 

A. What would you have ? That gentle trust, which seem** 
to itself immortal, cannot be given twice. What is sweet and 
flower-like in the mind is very timid, and can only be tempted 
out by the wooing breeze and infinite promise of spring. Those 
flowers, once touched by a cold wind, will not revive again. 

L. But their germs lie in the earth. 



DIALOGUE. 163 

A. Yes, to await a new spring ! But this conversation is 
profitless. Words can neither conceal nor make up for the want 
of flowing love. I do not blame you, Laurie, but I cannot af. 
ford to love you as I have done any more, nor would it avail 
either of us, if I could. Seek elsewhere what you can no longer 
duly prize from me. Let us not seek to raise the dead from 
their tombs, but cherish rather the innocent children of to-day. 

L. But I cannot be happy unless there is a perfectly good 
understanding between us. 

A. That, indeed, we ought to have. I feel the power of un- 
derstanding your course, whether it bend my way or not. I 
need not communication from you, or personal relation to do 
that, 

" Have I the human kernel first examined, 
Then I know, too, the future will and action." 

I have known you too deeply to misjudge you, in the long run. 

L. Yet you have been tempted to think me heartless. 

A. For the moment only ; have I not said it ? Thought al- 
ways convinced me that I could not have been so shallow as to 
barter heart for anything but heart. I only, by the bold play 
natural to me, led you to stake too high for your present income. 
I do not demand the forfeit on the friendly game. Do you un- 
derstand me ? 

L. No, I do not understand being both friendly and cold. 

A. Thou wilt, when thou shalt have lent as well as bor- 
rowed. 

I can bring forward on this subject gospel independent of our 
own experience. The poets, as usual, have thought out the sub- 
ject for their age. And it is an age where the complex and sub- 
tle workings of its spirit make it not easy for the immortal band, 
the sacred band of equal friends, to be formed into phalanx, or 
march with equal step in any form. 



164 PAPERS ON LITERATURE AND ART. 

Soon after I had begun to read some lines of our horoscope, I 
found this poem in Wordsworth, which seemed to link into mean- 
ing many sounds that were vibrating round me. 

A COMPLAINT. 

There is a change, and I am poor ; 
Your Love hath been, nor long ago, 

A Fountain at my fond Heart's door, 
Whose only business was to flow ; 

And flow it did ; not taking heed 
Of its own bounty, or my need. 

What happy moments did I count, 
Blest was I then all bliss above ; 

Now, for this consecrated Fount 
Of murmuring, sparkling, living love, 

What have 1 1 shall I dare to tell? 
A comfortless and hidden Well. 

A Well of love, it may be deep, 
I trust it is, and never dry ; 

What matter 1 if the Waters sleep 
In silence and obscurity, 

Such change, and at the very door 
Of my fond heart, hath made me poor. 

This, at the time, seemed unanswerable ; yet, afterwards I 
found among the writings of Coleridge what may serve as a suf. 
ficient answer. 

A SOLILOQUY. 
Unchanged within to see all changed without 
Is a blank lot and hard to bear, no doubt. 

Yet why at other's wanings shouldst thou fret 1 
Then only might'st thou feel a just regret, 

Hadst thou withheld thy love, or hid thy light 
In selfish forethought of neglect and slight, 

O wiselier, then, from feeble yearnings freed, 
While, and on whom, thou mayst, shine on! nor heed 

Whether the object by reflected light 
Return thy radiance or absorb it quite ; 



DIALOGUE. 165 

And though thou notest from thy safe recess 
Old Friends burn dim, like lamps in noisome air, 

Love them for what they are ; nor love them less, 
Because to thee they are not what they were. 

L. Do you expect to be able permanently to abide by such 
solace 1 

A. I do not expect so Olympian a calmness, that at first, 
when the chain of intercourse is broken, when confidence is dis- 
mayed, and thought driven back upon its source, I shall not feel 
a transient pang, even a shame, as when 

" The sacred secret hath flown out of us, 
And the heart been broken open by deep care." 

The wave receding, leaves the strand for the moment forlorn, 
and weed-bestrown. 

L. And is there no help for this ? Is there not a pride, a 
prudence, identical with self-respect, that could preserve us from 
such mistakes ? 

A. If you can show me one that is not selfish forethought of 
neglect or slight, T would wear it and recommend it as the de- 
sired amulet. As yet, I know no pride, no prudence except love 
of truth. 

Would a prudence be desirable that should have hindered our 
intimacy ? 

L. Ah, no ! it was happy, it was rich. 

A. Very well then, let us drink the bitter with as good a 
grace as the sweet, and for to-night talk no more of ourselves. 

L. To talk then of those other, better selves, the poets. I 
can well understand that Coleridge should have drunk so deeply 
as he did of this bitter-sweet. His nature was ardent, intense, 
variable in its workings, one of tides, crises, fermentations. He 
was the flint from which the spark must be struck by violent col- 
lision. His life was a mass in the midst of which fire glowed, 
but needed time to transfuse it, as his heavenly eyes glowed 



166 PAPERS ON LITERATURE AND ART. 

amid such heavy features. The habit of taking opium was but 
an outward expression of the transports and depressions to which 
he was inly prone. In him glided up in the silence, equally 
vivid, the Christabel, the Geraldine. Through his various 
mind 

"Alph, the sacred river, ran 
Through caverns measureless to man, 
Down to a sunless sea." 

He was one of those with whom 

" The meteor offspring of the brain 
Unnourished wane, 
Faith asks her daily bread, 
And fancy must be fed." 

And when this was denied, 

" Came a restless state, 'twixt yea and nay, 

His faith was fixed, his heart all ebb and flow; 
Or like a bark, in some half-sheltered bay, 
Above its anchor driving to and fro." 

Thus we cannot wonder that he, with all his vast mental re- 
sources and noble aims, should have been the bard elect to sing 
of Dejection, and that the pages of his prose works should be 
blistered by more painful records of personal and social expe- 
riences, than we find in almost any from a mind able to invoke 
the aid of divine philosophy, a mind touched by humble piety. 
But Wordsworth, who so early knew, and sought, and found the 
life and the work he wanted, whose wide and equable thought 
flows on like a river through the plain, whose verse seemed to 
come daily like the dew to rest upon the flowers of home affec- 
tions, we should think he might always have been with his friend, 
as '.ie describes two who had grown up together, 

" Each other's advocate, each other's stay, 
And strangers to content, if long apart, 
Or more divided than a sportive pair 



DIALOGUE. 167 

Of sea-fowl, conscious both that they are hovering 
Within the eddy of a common blast, 

Or hidden only by the concave depth 
Of neighbouring billows from each other's sight." 

And that we should not find in him traces of the sort of wound, 
nor the tone of deep human melancholy that we find in this Com- 
plaint, and in the sonnet, " Why art thou silent." 

A. I do not remember that. 

L. It is in the last published volume of his poems, though 
probably written many years before. 

" Why art thou silent 1 Is thy love a plant 

Of such weak fibre that the treacherous air 
Of absence withers what was once so fair 1 

Is there no debt to pay, no boon to grant 1 ? 
Yet have my thoughts for thee been vigilant, 

(As would my deeds have been) with hourly care, 
The mind's least generous wish a mendicant 

For naught but what thy happiness could spare. 
Speak, though this soft warm heart, once free to hold 

A thousand tender pleasures, thine and mine, 
Be left more desolate, more dreary cold, 

Than a forsaken bird's nest filled with snow, 
Mid its own bush of leafless eglantine ; 

Speak, that my torturing doubts their end may know." 

A. That is indeed the most pathetic description of the speech 
less palsy that precedes the death of love. 

" Is there no debt to pay, no boon to grant 1" 

But Laurie, how could you ever fancy a mind of poetic sensi- 
bility would be a stranger to this sort of sadness ? 

What signifies the security of a man's own position and 
choice ? The peace and brightness of his own lot ? If he has 
this intelligent sensibility can he fail to perceive the throb thai 
agitates the bosom of all nature, or can his own fail to respond 
to it? 



168 PAPERS ON LITERATURE AND ART. 

In the eye of man, or in the sunset clouds, from the sobs of 
literature, or those of the half-spent tempest, can he fail to read 
the secrets of fate and time, of an over-credulous hope, a too 
much bewailed disappointment ? Will not a very slight hint 
convey to the mind in which the nobler faculties are at all de- 
veloped, a sense of the earthquakes which ma\ in a moment up- 
heave his vineyard and whelm his cottage beneath rivers of fire. 
Can the poet at any time, like the stupid rich man, say to his 
soul, " Eat, drink, and be merry." No, he must ever say to his 
fellow man, as Menelaus to his kingly brother, 

" Shall my affairs 
Go pleasantly, while thine are full of woe V 

Oh, never could Wordsworth fail, beside his peaceful lake, to 
know the tempests of the ocean. And to an equable tempera- 
nent sorrow seems sadder than it really is, for such know less 
)f the pleasures of resistance. 

It needs not that one of deeply thoughtful mind be passionate, 
.o divine all the secrets of passion. Thought is a bee that can- 
not miss those flowers. 

Think you that if Hamlet had held exactly the position best 
fitted to his nature, had his thoughts become acts, without any 
violent willing of his own, had a great people paid life-long hom- 
age to his design, had he never detected the baseness of his 
mother, nor found cause to suspect the untimely fate of his fa- 
ther, had that " rose of May, the sweet Ophelia," bloomed safely 
at his side, and Horatio always been near, with his understand- 
ing mind and spotless hands, do you think all this could have 
preserved Hamlet from the astounding discovery that 

" A man may smile, and smile, and be a villain 1" 

That line, once written on his tables, would have required the 
commentary of many years for its explanation. 



DIALOGUE. 169 

L. He was one by nature adapted to " consider too curiously," 
for his own peace. 

A. All thoughtful minds are so. 

L. All geniuses have not been sad. 

A. So far as they are artistic, merely, they differ not from in- 
stinctive, practical characters, they find relief in work. But so 
far as they tend to evolve thought, rather than to recreate the 
forms of things, they suffer again and again the pain of death, 
because they open the gate to the next, the higher realm of be- 
ing. Shakspeare knew both, the joy of creation, the deep pang 
of knowledge, and this last he has expressed in Hamlet with a 
force that vibrates almost to the centre of things. 

L. It is marvellous, indeed, to hear the beautiful young 
prince catalogue — 

" The heartache, and the thousand natural shocks 
That flesh is heir to, * * * * 

* * The whips and scorns of time, 

The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely, 
The pangs of despised love, * * * 

* * * * The spurns 

That patient merit of the unworthy takes." 

To thee, Hamlet, so complete a nature, 

" The expectancy and rose of the fair state, 
The noble and most sovereign reason, 
The unmatched form and feature of blown youth," 

could such things come so near ? Who then shall hope a refuge, 
except through inborn stupidity or perfected faith ? 

A. Ay, well might he call his head a globe! It was fitted to 
comprehend all that makes up that " quintessence of dust, how 
noble in reason ; how infinite in faculties ; in form, and moving, 
how express and admirable ; in action how like an angel, in ap- 
prehension how like a god ; the beauty of the world, the paragon 
of animals !" yet to him, only a quintessence of dust ! 

L. And this world only " a sterile promontory." 
15 



170 PAPERS ON LITERATURE AND ART. 

A. Strange, that when from it one can look abroad into the 
ocean, its barrenness should be so depressing. But man seems 
to need some shelter, both from wind and rain. 

L. Could he not have found this in the love of Ophelia ? 

A. Probably not, since that love had so little power to disen- 
chant the gloom of this period. She was to him a flower to wear 
in his bosom, a child to play the lute at his feet. We' see the 
charm of her innocence, her soft credulity, as she answers her 
brother, 

"No more, but sol" 

The exquisite grace of her whole being in the two lines 

" And I of ladies most deject and wretched 
That sucked the honey of his music vows." 

She cannot be made to misunderstand him ; his rude wildnesb 
crushes, but cannot deceive her heart. She has no answer to his 
outbreaks but 

" O help him, you sweet Heavens !" 

But, lovely as she was, and loved by him, this love could have 
been only the ornament, not, in any wise, the food of his life. 
The moment he is left alone, his thoughts revert to universal top- 
ics ; it was the constitution of his mind, no personal relation could 
have availed it, except in the way of suggestion. He could not 
have been absorbed in the present moment. Still it would have 
been 

" Heaven and earth I 
Must I remember 1 " 

L. Have you been reading the play of late ? 

A. Yes ; hearing Mac ready, one or two points struck me 
that have not before, and I was inclined to try for my thousandth 
harvest from a new study of it. 

Macready gave its just emphasis to the climax — 



DIALOGUE. 171 

" I '11 call thee Hamlet, 
King, father, royal Dane," 

so unlike in its order to what would have been in any other mind, 
as also to the two expressions in the speech so delicately charac- 
teristic, 

" The glimpses of the moon." 
and 

" With thoughts beyond the reaches of our souls." 
I think I have in myself improved, that I feel more than ever 
what Macready does not, the deep calmness, always apparent be- 
neath the delicate variations of this soul's atmosphere. 

" The readiness is all." 

This religion from the very first harmonizes all these thrilling 
notes, and the sweet bells, even when most jangled out of tune, 
suggest all their silenced melody. 

From Hamlet I turned to Timon and Lear ; the transition was 
natural yet surprising, from the indifference and sadness of the 
heaven-craving soul to the misanthropy of the disappointed affec- 
tions and wounded trust. Hamlet would well have understood 
them both, yet what a firmament of spheres lies between his 
" pangs of despised love," and the anguish of Lear. 

" O Regan, Goneril ! 
Your'old kind father, whose frank heart gave you all — 

that way madness lies, let me shun that, 
No more of that, 

* * * ■ * * 

" I tax you not, you elements, with unkindness; 

1 never gave you kingdom, called you children." 

***** 

It rends the heart only ; no grief would be possible from a 
Hamlet, which would not, at the same time, exalt the soul. 

The outraged heart of Timon takes refuge at once in action, in 
curses, and bitter deeds. It needs to be relieved by the native 



17L PAPERS ON LITERATURE AND ART. 

baseness of Apemantus's misanthropy, baseness of a soul that 
never knew how to trust, to make it dignified in our eyes. Timon, 
estranged from men, could only die ; yet the least shade of wrong 
in this heaven-ruled world would have occasioned Hamlet a deep- 
er pain than Timon was capable of divining. Yet Hamlet could 
not for a moment have been so deceived as to fancy man worth, 
less, because many men were ; he knew himself too well, to feel 
the surprise of Timon when his steward proved true. 

" Let me behold 
Thy face. — Surely this man was born of woman. — 
Forgive my general and exceptless rashness, 
You perpetual-sober gods ! I do proclaim 
One honest man." 

He does not deserve a friend that could draw higher inferences 
from his story than the steward does. 

" Poor honest lord, brought low by his own heart, 
Undone by goodness ! Strange, unusual blood, 
When man's worst sin is, he does too much good I 
Who then dares to be half so kind again 1 
For bounty that makes gods, doth still mar men." 

Timon tastes the dregs of the cup. He persuades himself that 
he does not believe even in himself. 

" His semblable, even himself, Timon disdains." 
***** 

" Who dares, who dares 
In purity of manhood to stand up 
And say this man's ajlatterer, if one be 
So are they all." 

L. You seem to have fixed your mind, of late, on the subject 
of misanthropy ! 

A. I own that my thoughts have turned of late on that low 
form which despair assumes sometimes even with the well dis- 
posed. Yet see how inexcusable would it be in any of these be. 
ings. Hamlet is no misanthrope, but he has those excelling gifts 



DIALOGUE. 173 

least likely to find due response from those around him. Yet he 
is felt, almost in his due sense, by two or three- 
Lear has not only one faithful daughter, whom he knew not 
how to value, but a friend beside. 

Timon is prized by the only persons to whom he was good, 
purely from kindliness of nature, rather than the joy he expected 
from their gratitude and sympathy, his servants. 

Tragedy is always a mistake, and the loneliness of the deepest 
thinker, the widest lover, ceases to be pathetic to us, so soon as 
the sun is high enough above the mountains. 

Were I, despite the bright points so numerous in their history 
and the admonitions of my own conscience, inclined to despise 
my fellow men, I should have found abundant argument against 
it during this late study of Hamlet. In the streets, saloons, and 
lecture rooms, we continually hear comments so stupid, insolent, 
and shallow on great and beautiful works, that we are tempted to 
think that there is no Public for anything that is good ; that a work 
of genius can appeal only to the fewest minds in any one age, 
and that the reputation now awarded to those of former times is 
never felt, but only traditional. Of Shakspeare, so vaunted a 
name, little wise or worthy has been written, perhaps nothing so 
adequate as Coleridge's comparison of him to the Pine-apple ; yet 
on reading Hamlet, his greatest work, we find there is not a preg- 
nant sentence, scarce a word that men have not appreciated, have 
not used in myriad ways. Had we never read the play, we should 
find the whole of it from quotation and illustration familiar to us 
as air. That exquisite phraseology, so heavy with meaning, 
wrought out with such admirable minuteness, has become a part 
of literary diction, the stock of the literary bank ; and what set 
criticism can tell like this fact how great was the work, and that 
men were worthy it should be addressed to them ? 

L. The moon looks in to tell her assent. See, she has just 
15* 



174 PAPERS ON LITERATURE AND ART. 

got above that chimney. Just as this happy certainty has with 
you risen above the disgusts of the day. 

A. She looks surprised as well as complacent. 

L. She looks surprised to find me still here. I must say 
good night. My friend, good night. 

A. Good night, and farewell. 

L. You look as if it were for some time. 

A. That rests with you. You will generally find me here, 
and always I think like-minded, if not of the same mind. 

An ancient sage had all things deeply tried, 
And, as result, thus to his friends he cried, 

" O friends, there are no friends." And to this day 
Thus twofold moves the strange magnetic sway, 

Giving us love which love must take away. 
Let not the soul for this distrust its right, 

Knowing when changeful moons withdraw their light, 
Then myriad stars, with promise not less pure, 

New loves, new lives to patient hopes assure, 
So long as laws that rule the spheres endure. 



PART II. 

ART AND LITERATURE. 



am 



POETS OE THE PEOPLE. 



RHYMES AND RECOLLECTIONS OF A HAND-LOOM WEAVER. 

By William Thom, op Iverury. 

" An' syne whan nichts grew cauld an' lang, 
Ae while he sicht — ae while he sang." 

Second Edition, with Additions. London, 1845. 

We cannot give a notion of the plan and contents of this little 
volume better than by copying some passages from the Preface : 

•• The narrative portion of these pages," says Thom, " is a record of scenes 
and circumstances interwoven with my experience — with my destiny. * * The 
feelings and fancies, the pleasure and the pain that hovered about my aimless 
existence were all my own — my property. These aerial investments I held 
and fashioned into measured verse. * * The self-portraiture herein attempted 
is not altogether Egotism neither, inasmuch as the main lineaments of the sketch 
are to be found in the separate histories of a thousand families in Scotland 
within these last ten years. That fact, however, being contemplated in mass, 
and in reference to its bulk only, acts more on the wonder than on the pity of 
mankind, as if human sympathies, like the human eye, could not compass an 
object exceedingly large, and, at the same time, exceedingly near. It is no 
small share in the end and aim of the present little work, to impart to one por- 
tion of the community a glimpse of what is sometimes going on in another ; and 
even if only that is accomplished, some good service will be done. I have long 
had a notion that many of the heart-burnings that run through the Social 
Whole spring not so much from the distinctiveness of classes as their mutual 
ignorance of each other. The miserably rich look upon the miserably poor 
with distrust and dread, scarcely giving them credit for sensibility sufficient to 
feel their own sorrows. That is ignorance with its gilded side. The poor, in 

(177) 



178 PAPERS ON LITERATURE AND ART. 

turn foster a hatred of the wealthy as a sole inheritance — look on grandeur as 
their natural enemy, and bend to the rich man's rule in gall and bleeding scorn. 
Shallows on the one side and Demagogues on the other, are the portions that 
come oftenest into contact. These are the luckless things that skirt the great 
divisions, exchanging all that is offensive therein. 'Man know thyself .' 
should be written on the right hand ; on the left, ' Men, know each other.' " 

In this book, the recollections are introduced for the sake of 
the " Rhymes," and in the same relationship as parent and child, 
one the offspring of the other ; and in that association alone can 
they be interesting. " I write no more in either than what I 
knew — and not all of that — so Feeling has left Fancy little to 
do in the matter." 

There are two ways of considering Poems, or the products of 
literature in general. We may tolerate only what is excellent, 
and demand that whatever is consigned to print for the benefit of 
the human race should exhibit fruits perfect in shape, colour, and 
flavour, enclosing kernels of permanent value. 

Those who demand this will be content only with the Iliads 
and Odysseys of the mind's endeavour. — They can feed no 
where but at rich men's tables ; in the wildest recess of nature 
roots and berries will not content them. They say, " If you can 
thus satiate your appetite it is degrading ; we, the highly re- 
fined in taste and the tissue of the mind, can nowhere be ap- 
peased, unless by golden apples, served up on silver dishes." 

But, on the other hand, literature may be regarded as the great 
mutual system of interpretation between all kinds and classes of 
men. It is an epistolary correspondence between brethren of one 
family, subject to many and wide separations, and anxious to re- 
main in spiritual presence one of another. These letters may 
be written by the prisoner in soot and water, illustrated by rude 
sketches in charcoal ; — by nature's nobleman, free to use his in- 
heritance, in letters of gold, with the fair margin filled with ex- 
quisite miniatures ; — to the true man each will have value, first. 



POETS OF THE PEOPLE. 179 

in proportion to the degree of its revelation as to the life of the 
human soul, second, in proportion to the perfection of form in 
which that revelation is expressed. 

In like manner are there two modes of criticism. One which 
tries, by the highest standard of literary perfection the critic is 
capable of conceiving, each work which comes in his way ; re- 
jecting all that it is possible to reject, and reserving for toleration 
only what is capable of standing the severest test. It crushes to 
earth without mercy all the humble buds of Phantasy, all the 
plants that, though green and fruitful, are also a prey to insects, 
or have suffered by drouth. It weeds well the garden, and can- 
not believe, that the weed in its native soil, may be a pretty, grace- 
ful plant. 

There is another mode which enters into the natural history of 
every thing that breathes and lives, which believes no impulse to 
be entirely in vain, which scrutinizes circumstances, motive and 
object before it condemns, and believes there is a beauty in each 
natural form, if its law and purpose be understood. It does not 
consider a literature merely as the garden of the nation, but as 
the growth of the entire region, with all its variety of mountain, 
forest, pasture, and tillage lands. Those who observe in this 
spirit will often experience, from some humble offering to the 
Muses, the delight felt by the naturalist in the grasses and lichens 
of some otherwise barren spot. These are the earliest and hum- 
blest efforts of nature, but to a discerning eye they indicate thr- 
entire range of her energies. 

These two schools have each their dangers. The first tends 
to hypercriticism and pedantry, to a cold restriction on the un- 
studied action of a large and flowing life. In demanding that 
the stream should always flow transparent over golden sands, 
it tends to repress its careless majesty, its vigour, and its ferti- 
lizing power. 

The other shares the usual perils of the genial and affectionate ; 



180 PAPERS ON LITERATURE AND ART 

it tends to indiscriminate indulgence and a leveling of the 
beautiful with what is merely tolerable. For indeed the vines 
need judicious pruning if they are to bring us the ruby wine. 

In the golden age to which we are ever looking forward, these 
two tendencies will be harmonized. The highest sense of ful- 
filled excellence will be found to consist with the largest appre- 
ciation of every sign of life. The eye of man is fitted to range 
all around no less than to be lifted on high. 

Meanwhile the spirit of the time, which is certainly seeking, 
though by many and strange ways, the greatest happiness for the 
greatest number, by discoveries which facilitate mental no less 
than bodily communication, till soon it will be almost as easy to 
get your thought printed or engraved on a thousand leaves as to 
drop it from the pen on one, and by the simultaneous bubbling up 
of rills of thought in a thousand hitnerto obscure and silent 
places, declares that the genial and generous tendency shall have 
the lead, at least for the present. 

We are not ourselves at all concerned, lest excellent expres- 
sion should cease because the power of speech to some extent 
becomes more general. The larger the wave and the more fish 
it sweeps along, the likelier that some fine ones should enrich the 
net. It has always been so. The great efforts of art belong to 
artistic regions, where the boys in the street draw sketches on the 
wall and torment melodies on rude flutes ; shoals of sonneteers 
follow in the wake of the great poet. The electricity which 
flashes with the thunderbolts of Jove must first pervade the whole 
atmosphere. 

How glad then are we to see that such men as Prince and 
Thorn, if they are forced by ' poortith cauld' to sigh much in the 
long winter night, which brings them neither work nor pleasure, 
can also sing between. 

Thorn passed his boyhood in a factory, where, beside the disad- 
vantage of ceaseless toil and din, he describes himself as being 



POETS OF THE PEOPLE. 181 

under the worst moral influences. These, however, had no 
power to corrupt his native goodness and sweetness. One of the 
most remarkable things about him is his disposition to look on the 
bright side, and the light and gentle playfulness with which he 
enlivened, when possible, the darkest pages of his life. 

The only teachers that found access to the Factory were some 
works of contemporary poets. These were great contemporaries 
for him. Scott, Byron, Moore, breathed full enough to fan a 
good blaze. — But still more important to the Scotsman and the 
craftsman were the teachings of those commemorated in the fol- 
lowing passage which describes the first introduction of them to 
the literary world, and gives no unfair specimen both of his prose 
and his poetry : 

"Nearer and dearer to hearts like ours was the Ettrick Shepherd, then in his 
full tide of song and story ; but nearer and dearer still than he, or any living 
songster — to us dearer — was our ill-fated fellow-craftsman, Tannahill, who had 
iust then taken himself from a neglecting world, while yet that world waxed 
mellow in his lay. Poor weaver chiel! What we owe to thee ! Your " Braes 
o' Balquidder," and "Yon Burnside," and " Gloomy Winter," and the "Min- 
strel's" wailing ditty, and the noble " Gleneifer." Oh! how they did ring above 
the rattling of a hundred shuttles ! Let me again proclaim the debt we owe 
those Song Spirits, as they walked in melody from loom to loom, ministering to 
the low-hearted ; and when the breast was filled with everything but hope and 
happiness, and all but seared, let only break forth the healthy and vigorous 
chorus "A man's a man for a' that," the fagged weaver brightens up. His very 
shuttle skytes boldly along, and clatters through in faithful time to the tune of 
his merrier shopmates ! 

" Who dare measure in doubt the restraining influences of these very Songs'? 
To us they were all instead of sermons. Had one of us been bold enough to 
enter a church he must have been ejected for the sake of decency. His forlorn 
and curiously patched habiliments would have contested the point of attraction 
with the ordinary eloquence of that period. So for all parties it was better that 
he kept to his garret, or wandered far " in the deep green wood." Church bells 
rang not for us. Poets were indeed our Priests. But for those, the last relic of 
our moral existence would have surely passed away ! 

" Song was the dew-drops that gathered iuring the long dark night of despon- 

16 



182 PAPERS ON LITERATURE AND ART. 

dency, and were sure to glitter in the very first blink of the sun. * * * • 
To us Virtue, in whatever shape, came only in shadow, but even by that wte 
Baw her sweet proportions, and sometimes fain would have sought a kind ac- 
quaintance with her. — Thinking that the better features of humanity could not 
be utterly defaced where song and melody were permitted to exist, and that 
where they were not all crushed, Hope and Mercy might yet bless the spot, some 
waxed bold, and for a time took leave of those who were called to "sing ayont 
the moon," groping amidst the material around and stringing it up, ventured on 
a home-made lilt. — Short was the search to find a newly kindled love, or some 
old heart abreaking. Such was aye amongst us and not always unnoticed, nor 
as ye shall see, unsung. 

" It was not enough that we merely chaunted, and listened: but some more 
ambitious, or idle if ye will, they in time would try a self-conceived song. Just 
as if some funny little boy, bolder than the rest, would creep into the room where 
laid Neil Gow's fiddle, and touch a note or two he could not name. How proud 
he is! how blest! for he had made a sound, and more, his playmates heard it, 
faith ! Here I will introduce one of these early touches, not for any merit of its 
own, but it will show that we could sometimes bear and even seek for our 
minds a short residence, though not elegant at least sinless, — a fleeting visit 
of healthy things, though small they were in size and few in number. Spray 
from a gushing "linn," if it slackened not the thirst, it cooled the brow. 

" The following ditty had its foundation in one of those luckless doings which 
ever and aye follow misguided attachments ; and in our abode of freedom these 
were almost the only kind of attachments known ; so they were all on the 
wrong side of durability or happiness. 

Am — "Lass, gin you We me, tell me two." 

We'll meet in yon wood, 'neath a starless sky, 
When wrestling leaves forsake ilk tree; 

We mauna speak mair o' the days gane by, 
Nor o' friends that again we never maun see : 
Nae weak word o' mine shall remembrance gie 
O' vows that were made and were broken to me: 

I'll seem in my silence to reckon them dead, 

A' wither'd and lost as the leaves that we tread. 

Alane ye maun meet me, when midnight is near, 
By yon blighted auld bush that we fatally ken ; 

The voice that allured me, O ! let me nae hear, 
For my heart maun beat to its music again. 



POETS OP THE PEOPLE. 183 

In darkness we'll meet, and in silence remain,' 
/ Ilk word now and look now, were mockful or vain; 

Ae mute moment morne the dream that misled, 
Syne sinder as cauld as the leaves that we tread. 

" This ditty was sung in the weaving shops, and when in the warbling of 
one who could lend a good voice to the occasion, and could coax the words and 
air into a sort of social understanding, then was it a song." 

Thorn had no furtherance for many years after this first ap- 
pearance.' It was hard work at all times to win bread ; when 
work failed he was obliged to wander on foot elsewhere to pro- 
cure it, losing his youngest child in a barn from the hardships 
endured one cold night of this untimely " flitting ;" his admira- 
ble wife too died prematurely from the same cause. At one time 
he was obliged to go with his little daughter and his flute, (on 
which he is an excellent performer,) into the streets as a mendi- 
cant, to procure bread for his family. This last seems to have 
been far more cruel than any hardship to the honest pride native 
to the Scotchman. But there is another side. Like Prince, he 
was happy, as men in a rank more favoured by fortune seldom 
are, in his choice of a wife. He had an equal friend, a refined 
love, a brave, gentle, and uncomplaining companion in every sor- 
row, and wrote from his own experience the following lines . 

THEY SPEAK O' WYLES. 

Air " Gin a bodie meet a bodie." 

They speak o' wyles in woman's smiles, 

An' ruin in her e'e — 
I ken they bring a pang at whiles 

That's unco sair to dree ; 
But mind ye this, the half-ta'en kiss, 

The first fond fa'in' tear, 
Is, Heaven kens, fu' sweet amends 

An' tints o' heaven here. 



184 PAPERS ON LITERATURE AND ART. 

When twa leal hearts in fondness meet, 

Life's tempests howl in vain — 
The very tears o' love are sweet 

When paid with tears again. 
Shall sapless prudence shake its pow, 

Shall cauldrife caution fear 1 
Oh, dinna, dinna droun the lowe 

That lichts a heaven here ! 

He was equally happy in his children, though the motherless 
bairns had to be sent, the little girl to tend cows, the darling boy 
to a hospital (where his being subjected, when alone, to a surgi- 
cal operation, is the occasion of one of the poor Poet's most 
touching strains.) They were indeed his children in love and 
sympathy, the source of thought and joy, such as is never known 
to the rich man who gives up for banks and ships all the immor- 
tal riches domestic joys might bring him, leaving his children 
first to the nursery-maid, theu to hired masters, and last to the 
embrace of a corrupt world. He was also most happy in his 
" aerial investments," and like Prince, so fortunate, midway in 
life before his power of resistance was exhausted, and those bit- 
terest of all bitter words Too Late, stamped upon his brow, as to 
secure the enlightened assistance of one generous journal, the 
timely assistance of one generous friend, which, though little in 
money, was large in results. So Thorn is far from an unfortu- 
nate man, though the portrait which we find in his book is marked 
with wrinkles of such premature depth. Indeed he declares thai 
while work was plenty and his wife with him, he was blest for 
"nine years with such happiness as rarely falls to the lot of a 
human being." 

Thorn has a poetical mind, rather than is a poet. He has a 
delicate perception of relations, and is more a poet in discerning 
good occasions for poems than in using them. Accordingly his 
prefaces to, or notes upon, his verses, are often, as was the case 
with Sir Walter Scott, far more poetical than the verses them- 



POETS AND THE PEOPLE. 185 

selves. This is the case as to those which followed this little 
sketch : 

" For a period of seventeen years, I was employed in a great weaving factory 
in Aberdeen. It contained upwards of three hundred looms, worked by as 
many male and female weavers. 'Twas a sad place, indeed, and many a curi- 
osity sort of man and woman entered that blue gate. Amongst the rest, that 
little sly fellow Cupid would steal past ' Willie, the porter' (who never dreamed 
of such a being) — steal in amongst us, and make a very harvest of it. Upon 
the remembrance of one of his rather grave doings, the song of ' Mary' is com- 
posed. One of our shopmates, a virtuous young woman, fairly though uncon- 
sciously, carried away the whole bulk and value of a poor weaver's heart. He 
became restless and miserable, but could never muster spirit to speak his flame. 
" He never told his love" — yes, he told it to me. At his request, I told it to 
Mary, and she laughed. Five weeks passed away, and I saw him to the church- 
yard. For many days ere he died, Mary watched by his bedside, a sorrowful 
woman, indeed. Never did widow's tears fall more burningly. It is twenty 
years since then. She is now a wife and a mother ; but the remembrance of 
that, their last meeting, still haunts her sensitive nature, as if she had done a 
deed of blood." 

The charming little description of one of the rural academies 
known by the name of a " Wifie's Squeel," we reserve to reprint 
in another connexion. — As we are overstepping all limits, we 
shall give, in place of farther comments, three specimens of how 
the Muse sings while she throws a shuttle. They are all inter- 
esting in different ways. " One of the Heart's Struggles" is a 
faithful transcript of the refined feelings of the craftsman, how 
opposite to the vulgar selfishness which so often profanes the 
name of Love ! " A Chieftain Unknown to the Queen," ex- 
presses many thoughts that arose in our own mind as we used to 
read t the bulletins of the Royal Progress through Scotland so 
carefully transferred to the columns of American journals. 
" Whisper Low" is perhaps the best specimen of song as song t 
to be found in this volume. 
16* 



186 PAPERS ON LITERATURE AND ART. 



PRINCE'S POEMS. 

By signs too numerous to be counted, yet some of them made 
fruitful by specification, the Spirit of the Age announces that she 
is slowly, toilsomely, but surely, working that revolution, whose 
mighty deluge rolling back, shall leave a new aspect smiling on 
earth to greet the ' most ancient heavens.' The wave rolls for- 
ward slowly, and may be as long in retreating, but when it has 
retired into the eternal deep, it will leave behind it a refreshed 
world, in which there may still be many low and mean men, but 
no lower classes ; for it will be understood that it is the glory of 
a man to labour, and that all kinds of labour have their poetry, and 
that there is really no more a lower and higher among the world 
of men with their various spheres, than in the world of stars. All 
kinds of labour are equally honorable, if the mind of the labourer 
be only open so to understand them. But as 

" The glory 'tis of Man's estate, — 
For this his dower did he receive, 
That he in mind should contemplate 
What with his hands he doth achieve." 
***** 
" Observe we sharply, then, what vantage, 
From conflux of weak efforts springs ; 
He turns his craft to small advantage 
Who knows not what to light it brings." 

It is this that has made the difference of high and low, that cer- 
tain occupations were supposed to have a better influence in lib- 
eralizing and refining the higher faculties than others. Now, the 
tables are turning. The inferences and impressions to be gained 
from the pursuits that have ranked highest are, for the present, 
exhausted. They have been written about, prated about, till they 
have had their day, and need to lie in the shadow and recruit their 
energies through silence. The mind of the time has detected ."tie 



POETS OF THE PEOPLE. 187 

truth that as there is nothing, the least, effected in this universe 
which does not somehow represent the whole, which it is again 
the whole scope and effort of human Intelligence to do, no deed, 
no pursuit can fail, if the mind be ' divinely intended' upon it, to 
communicate divine knowledge. Thus it is seen that all a man 
needs for his education is to take whatsoever lies in his way to do, 
and do it with his might, and think about it with his might, too ; for 

" He turns his craft to small advantage, 
Who knows not what to light it brings." 

And, as a mark of this diffusion- of the true, the poetic, the phi- 
losophic education, we greet the emergence more and more of poets 
from the working classes- — men who not only have poet hearts 
and eyes, but use them to write and print verses. 

Beranger, the man of the people, is the greatest poet, and, in 
fact, the greatest literary genius of modern France. In other 
nations if " the lower classes" have not such an one to boast, they 
at least have many buds and shoots of new talent. Not to speak of 
the patronized ploughboys and detected merits, they have now an 
order, constantly increasing, able to live by the day labor of that 
good right hand which wields the pen at night ; with aims, 
thoughts, feelings of their own, neither borrowing from nor as- 
piring to the region of the Rich and Great. Elliott, Nicol, Prince, 
and Thorn find enough in the hedge-rows that border their every 
day path ; — they need not steal an entrance to padlocked flower 
gardens, nor orchards guarded by man-traps and spring-guns. 

Of three of these it may be said, they 

" Were cradled into Poesy by Wrong, 
And learnt in Suffering what they taught in Song." 

But of the fourth — Prince, we mean — though he indeed suffered 
enough of the severest hardships of work-day life, the extreme 
hardships of life when work could not be got, yet he was no flint 
that needed such lard blows to strike out the fire, but an easily 



188 PAPERS ON LITERATURE AND ART. 

bubbling naphtha-spring that would have burned much the samej 
through whatever soil it had reached the open air. 

He was born of the poorest laboring people, taught to read and 
write imperfectly only by means of the Sunday Schools, discour- 
aged in any taste for books by his father lest his time, if any por- 
tion were that way bestowed, should not suffice to win his bread, — 
with no friends of the mind, in youthful years, except a volume 
of Byron, and an old German who loved to tell stories of his na- 
tive land ; — married at nineteen, in the hope of mingling some 
solace with his cup ; plunged by the birth of children into deeper 
want, going forth to foreign lands a beggar in search of employ- 
ment, returning to his own country to be received as a pauper, 
having won nothing but mental treasure which no man wished to 
buy ; he found his wife and children in the workhouse, and 
took them thence home to lie with him on straw in an unfurnished 
garret. Thus passed the first half of the span allotted on earth 
to one made in God's image. And during those years Prince 
constantly wrote into verse how such things struck him. But 
we cannot say that his human experiences were deep ; for all 
these things, that would have tortured other men, only pained him 
superficially. Into the soul of Elliott, the iron has entered ; the 
lightest song of Beranger echoes to a melancholy sense of the de- 
fects of this world with its Tantalus destinies, a melancholy which 
touches it at times with celestial pathos. But life has made but 
little impression on Prince. Endowed by Nature with great pu- 
rity of instincts, a healthy vigor of feeling more than of thought, 
he sees, and expresses in all his works, the happiness natural to 
Man. He sees him growing, gently, gradually, with no more of 
struggle and labour than is wanted to cevelope his manly strength, 
learning his best self from the precious teachings of domestic af- 
fections, fully and intelligently the son, the lover, the husband, 
.he father. He sees him walking amid the infinite fair shows of 
Nature, kingly, yet companionable, too. He sees him offering to 



POETS OF THE PEOPLE. 189 

his God no sacrifice of b.ood and tears, whether others' or his 
own, but the incense of a grateful and obedient heart, ever ready 
for love and good works. 

It is this childishness, rather this virginity of soul, that makes 
Prince's poems remarkable. He has no high poetic power, not 
even a marked individuality of expression. There are no lines, 
verses, or images that strike by themselves ; neither human nor 
external nature are described so as to make the mind of the poet 
foster-father to its subject. The poems are only easy expression 
of the common mood of a healthy mind and tender heart, which 
needs to vent itself in words and metres. Every body should be 
atie to write as good verse, — every body has the same simple, 
substantial things to put into it. On such a general basis the high 
constructive faculty, the imagination, might rear her palaces, un- 
afraid of ruin from war or time. 

This being the case with Prince, we shall not make detailed re- 
marks upon his poems, but merely substantiate what we have said 
by some extracts. 

1st. We give the description of his Journey and Return. This, 
to us, presents a delightful picture ; the man is so sufficient to 
himself and his own improvement ; so unconquerably sweet and 
happy. 

2d. The poem ' Land and Sea,' as giving a true presentment 
of the riches of this poor man. 

3d. A poem to his Child, showing how a pure and refined sense 
of the beauty and value of these relations, often unknown in pal- 
aces, may make a temple of an unfurnished garret. 

4th. In an extract from ' A Vision of the Future,' a presenta- 
tion of the life fit for man, as seen by a 'reed-maker for weavers;' 
such as we doubt Mrs. Norton's Child of the Islands would not 
have vigor and purity of mental sense even to sympathize with, 
when conceived, far less to conceive. 

These extracts speak for themselves ; they show the stream of 



190 PAPERS ON LITERATURE AND ART. 

the poet's mind to be as clear as if it had flowed over the sands 
of Pactolus. But most waters show the color of the soil through 
which they had to force their passage ; this is the case with Elli- 
ott, and with Thorn, of whose writings we shall soon give some 
notice. 

Prince is an unique, as we sometimes find a noble Bayard, born 
of a worldly statesman — a sweet shepherdess or nun, of a heart- 
less woman of fashion. Such characters are the direct gift of 
Heaven, and symbolize nothing in what is now called Society. 



THE CHILD OF THE ISLANDS : By the Hon. Mrs. Norton. London: 

Chapman and Hull. 1845. 
HOURS WITH THE MUSES: By John Critchley Prince. Second 

Edition. London. Simpkin, Marshall & Co. 1841. 

The Hon. Mrs. Norton and Prince, " a reed-maker for weav- 
ers," meet upon a common theme — the existing miseries and pos- 
sible relief of that most wretched body, England's poor: most 
wretched of the world's sufferers in being worse mocked by pre- 
tensions of freedom and glory, most wretched in having minds 
more awakened to feel their wretchedness. 

Mrs. Norton and Prince meet on the same ground, but in 
strongly contrasted garb and expression, as might be expected 
from the opposite quarters from which they come. Prince takes 
this truly noble motto : 

" Knowledge and Truth and Virtue were his theme, 
And lofty hopes of Liberty divine." — Shelley. 

Mrs. Norton prefaces a poem on a subject of such sorrowful 
earnestness, and in which she calls the future sovereign of a 
groaning land to thought upon his duties, with this weak wish 
couched in the verse of Moore : 



POETS OP THE PEOPLE. 191 

• ; Ab, half in shade and half in sun, 

This world along its course advances, 
May that side the sun's upon • 
Be all that shall ever meet thy glances." 

Thus unconsciously showing her state of mind. It is a very dif. 
ferent wish that a good friend, ' let alone' a good angel, would 
proffer to the Prince of Wales at this moment. Shame indeed 
will it be for him if he does wish to stand in the sun, while the 
millions that he ought to spend all his blood to benefit are shiver- 
ing in the cold and dark. The position of the heirs of fortune 
in that country, under present circumstances, is one of dread, 
which to a noble soul would bring almost the anguish of cruci 
fixion. How can they enjoy one moment in peace the benefit of 
their possessions 1 And how can they give them up, and be sure 
it will be any benefit to others ? The causes of ill seern so 
deeply rooted in the public economy of England, that, if all her 
rich men were to sell all they have and give to the poor, it would 
yield but a temporary relief. Yea ! all those heaped-up gems, 
the Court array of England's beauty ; the immense treasures of 
art, enough to arouse old Greece from her grave ; the stately 
parks, full of dewy glades and bosky dells, haunted by the 
stately deer and still more thickly by exquisite memories ; the 
enormous wealth of episcopal palaces, might all be given up for 
the good of the people at large, and not relieve their sufferings 
ten years. It is not merely that sense of right usually dignified 
by the name of generosity that is wanted, but wisdom — a deeper 
wisdom by far as to the conduct of national affairs than the world 
has ever yet known. It is not enough now for prince or noble to 
be awakened to good dispositions. Let him not hope at once to 
be able to do good with the best dispositions; things have got too 
far from health and simplicity for that ; the return must be te- 
dious, and whoever sets out on that path must resign himself to 
be a patient student with a painfully studying world for his com- 



192 PAPERS ON LITERATURE AND ART. 

panion. In work he can for a long time hope no shining results 
.he miners dig in the dark as yet for the ransom of the suffering 
million. 

Hard is the problem for the whole civilized world at present, 
hard for bankrupt Europe, hard for endangered America. We 
say bankrupt Europe, for surely nations are so who have not 
known how to secure peace, education, or even bodily sustenance 
for the people at large. The lightest lore of fairy tale is wise 
enough to show that such nations must be considered bankrupt, 
notwithstanding the accumulation of wealth, the development of 
resources, the prodigies of genius and science they have to boast. 
Some successes have been achieved, but at what a price of blood 
and tears, of error and of crime ! 

And, in this hard school-time, hardest must be the lot of him 
who has outward advantages above the rest, and yet is at all 
awakened to the wants of all. Has he mind ? how shall he learn ? 
time — how employ it ? means — where apply them ? The poor 
little " trapper," kept in the dark at his automaton task twelve 
hours a day, has an easy and happy life before him, compared 
with the prince on the throne, if that prince possesses a con- 
science that can be roused, a mind that can be developed. ' 

The position of such a prince is indicated in the following ex- 
tract which we take from the Schnellpost. Laube says in his 
late work, called " Three royal cities of the North," " King 
Oscar still lives in the second story of the castle at Stockholm, 
where he lived when he was crowned prince. He was out, and 
his dressing gown thrown upon an elbow chair before the writing 
table : all was open, showing how he was occupied. I found 
among the books, that seemed in present use, many in German, 
among them the " Staats Lexicon," " Julius upon Prisons," 
" Rotteck's History of the World." It is well known that King 
Oscar is especially interested in studies for the advantage of the 
most unhappy classes of citizens, the poor and the prisoners, and 



POETS OP THE PEOPLE. 193 

has, himself, written upon the subject. His apartment shows 
domestic habits like those of a writer. No fine library full of 
books left to accumulate dust, but what he wants, chosen with 
judgment, ready for use around him. A hundred little things 
showed what should be the modern kingly character,, at home in 
the intellectual life of our time, earnest for a general culture. 
Every thing in his simple arrangements showed the manly demo- 
cratic prince. He is up v early and late, attending with zealo&s 
conscientiousness to the duties of his office." 

Such a life should England's prince live, and then he would be 
only one of the many virtuous seekers, with a better chance to try 
experiments. The genius of the time is working through myriad 
organs, speaking through myriad mouths, but condescends chiefly 
to men of low estate. She is spelling a new and sublime spell ; 
its first word we know is brotherhood, but that must be well pro- 
nounced and learnt by heart before we shall hear another so clearly. 
One thing is obvious, we must cease to worship princes even in 
genius. The greatest geniuses will in this day rank themselves as 
the chief servants only. It is not even the most exquisite, the high- 
est, but rather the largest and deepest experience that can serve 
us. The Prince of Wales, like his poetess, will not be so able a 
servant on account of the privileges she so gracefully enumerates 
and cannot persuade herself are not blessings. But they will 
keep him, as they have kept her, farther from the truth and 
knowledge wanted than he would have been in a less sheltered 
position. 

Yet we sympathize with Mrs. Norton in her appeal. Every 
boy should be a young prince ; since it is not so, in the present 
distorted state of society, it is natural to select some one cherished 
object as the heir to our hopes. Children become the angels of 
a better future to all who attain middle age without losing from 
the breast that chief jewel, the idea of what man and life should 
be. They must do what we hoped to do, but find time, strength, 
17 



194 PAPERS ON LITERATURE AND ART. 

perhaps even spirit, failing. They show not yet their limitations ; 
in their eyes shines an infinite hope ; we can imagine it realized 
in their lives, and this consoles us for the deficiencies in our own, 
for the soul, though demanding the beautiful and good every 
where, can yet be consoled if it is found some where.. 'Tis an 
illusion to look for it in these children more than in ourselves, 
but it is one we seem to need, being the second strain of the mu- 
sic that cheers our fatiguing march through this part of the scene 
of life. 

There was a good deal of prestige about Queen Victoria's 
coming to the throne. She was young, " and had what in a 
princess might be styled beauty." She wept lest she should not 
reign wisely, and that seemed as if she might. Many hoped she 
might prove another Elizabeth, with more heart, using the privi- 
leges of the woman, her high feeling, sympathy, tact and quick 
penetration in unison with, and as corrective of, the advice of ex- 
perienced statesmen. We hoped she would be a mother to the 
country. But she has given no signs of distinguished character; 
her walk seems a private one. She is a fashionable lady and 
the mother of a family. We hope she may prove the mother of 
a good prince, but it will not do to wait for him ; the present 
generation must do all it can. If he does no harm, it is more 
than is reasonable to expect from a prince — does no harm and is 
the keystone to keep the social arch from falling into ruins till 
the time be ripe to construct a better in its stead. 

Mrs. Norton, addressing herself to the Child of the Islands, 
goes through the circling seasons of the year and finds plenty of 
topics in their changes to subserve her main aim. This is to 
awaken the rich to their duty. And, though the traces of her 
education are visible, and weak prejudices linger among newly 
awakened thoughts, yet, on the whole, she shows a just sense of 
the relationship betwixt man and man, and musically doth she 
proclaim her creed in the lines beginning 



POETS OP THE PEOPLE. 195 

The stamps of imperfection rests on all 
Our human intellect has power to plan. 

After an eloquent enumeration of the difficulties that beset our 
path and our faith, she concludes — ■ 

Lo ! out of chaos was the world first called, 

And Order out of blank Disorder came, 
The feebly-toiling heart that shrinks appalled, 

In dangers weak, in difficulties tame, 

Hath lost the spark of that creative flame 
Dimly permitted still on earth to burn, 

Working out slowly Order's perfect frame; 
Distributed to those whose souls can learn, 
As labourers under God, His task-work to discern. 

" To discern," ay ! that is what is needed. Only these " la- 
bourers under God" have that clearness of mind that is needed, 
and though in the present time they walk as men in a subterra- 
nean passage where the lamp sheds its light only a little way 
onward, yet that light suffices to keep their feet from stumbling 
while they seek an outlet to the blessed day. 

The above presents a fair specimen of the poem. As poetry 
it is inferior to her earlier verses, where, without pretension to 
much thought, or commanding view, Mrs. Norton expressed sim- 
ply the feelings of the girl and the woman. Willis has described 
them well in one of the most touching of his poems, as being a 
tale 

— " of feelings which in me are cold, 
But ah ! with what a passionate sweetness told !" 

The best passages in the present poem are personal, as where 
a mother's feelings are expressed in speaking of infants and 
young children, recollections of a Scotch Autumn, and the de- 
scription of the imprisoned gipsey.* 

• This extract was inserted in the original notice, but must be omitted here 
for want of room. 



196 PAPERS ON LITERATURE AND ART. 

In the same soft and flowing style, and with the same unstudie* 
fidelity to nature, is the grief of the gipsey husband painted 
when he comes and finds her dead. After the first fury of rage 
and despair is spent, he " weepeth like a child" — 

And many a day by many a sunny bank, 

Or forest pond, close fringed with rushes dank, 
He wails, his clench'd hands on his eyelids prest; 

Or by lone hedges, where the grass grows rank, 
Stretched prone, as travelers deem, in idle rest, 
Mourns for that murdered girl, the dove of his wild nest. 

To such passages the woman's heart lends the rhetoric. 

Generally the poem is written with considerable strength, in a 
good style, sustained, and sufficiently adorned, by the flowers of 
feeling. It shows an expansion of mind highly honourable to a 
lady placed as Mrs. Norton has been, and for which she, no 
doubt, is much indebted to her experience of sorrow. She has 
felt the need of faith and hope, of an enlargement of sympathy. 
The poem may be read through at once and without fatigue ; 
this is much to say for an ethical poem, filling a large volume. 
It is, however, chiefly indebted for its celebrity to the circum- 
stances of its authorship. A beautiful lady, celebrated in aristo- 
cratic circles, joins the democratic movement, now so widely 
spreading in light literature, and men hail the fact as a sign of 
the times. The poem is addressed to the " upper classes," and, 
even from its defects, calculated to win access to their minds. 
Its outward garb, too, is suited to attract their notice. The book 
is simply but beautifully got up, the two stanzas looking as if 
written for the page they fill, and in a pre-existent harmony with 
the frame-work and margin. There is only one ugly thing, and 
that frightfully ugly, the design for the frontispiece by Maclise. 
The Child of the Islands, represented by an infant form to whose 
frigid awkwardness there is no correspondence in the most de- 
graded models that can be found in Nature for that age, with the 



POETS OF THE PEOPLE. 197 

tamest of angels kneeling at his head and feet, angels that have 
not spirit and sweetness, enough to pray away a fly, forms the 
centre. Around him are other figures of whom it is impossible 
to say whether they are goblins or fairies, come to curse or bless. 
The accessories are as bad as the main group, mean in concep- 
tion, tame in execution. And the subject admitted of so beauti- 
ful and noble an illustration by Art ! We marvel that a person 
of so refined taste as Mrs. Norton, and so warmly engaged in 
the subject, should have admitted this to its companionship. 

We intended to have given some account of Prince and his 
poems, in this connection, but must now wait till another num- 
ber, for we have spread our words over too much space already. 
17* 



MISS BARRETT'S* POEMS. 



A DRAMA OF EXILE: AND OTHER POEMS. By Elizabeth B. Bar- 
rett, author of The Seraphim and other Poems. New- York : Henry G. 
Langley, No. 8 Astor House, 1845 

What happiness for the critic when, as in the present instance, 
his task is, mainly, how to express a cordial admiration ; to in- 
dicate an intelligence of beauties, rather than regret for defects ! 

We have read these volumes with feelings of delight far 
warmer than the writer, in her sincerely modest preface, would 
seem to expect from any reader, and cannot hesitate to rank her, 
in vigour and nobleness of conception, depth of spiritual experi- 
ence, and command of classic allusion, above any female writer 
the world has yet known. 

In the first quality, especially, most female writers are defi- 
cient. They do not grasp a subject with simple energy, nor 
treat it with decision of touch. They are, in general, most re- 
markable for delicacy of feeling, and brilliancy or grace in 
manner. 

In delicacy of perception, Miss Barrett may vie with any of 
her sex. She has what is called a true woman's heart, although 
we must believe that men of a fine conscience and good organi 
zation will have such a heart no less. Signal instances occu» 
to us in the cases of Spenser, Wordsworth and Tennyson. Tht 
woman who reads them will not find hardness or blindness as tc 
the subtler workings of thoughts and affections. 

If men are often deficient on this score ; women, on the othei 
hand, are apt to pay excessive attention to the slight tokens, the 

* Now Mrs. Browning. Ed. 

(198) 



MISS BARRETT'S POEMS. 199 

little things of life. Thus, in conduct or writing, they tend tu 
weary us by a morbid sentimentalism. From this fault Miss 
Barrett is wholly free. Personal feeling is in its place ; enlight- 
ened by Reason, ennobled by Imagination. The earth is no de- 
spised resting place for the feet, the heaven bends wide above, 
rich in starry hopes, and the air flows around exhilarating and 
free. 

The mournful, albeit we must own them tuneful, sisters of the 
lyre might hush many of their strains at this clear note from one 
who has felt and conquered the same difficulties. 

PERPLEXED MUSIC. 

" Experience, like a pale musician, holds 

A dulcimer of patience in his hand: 

Whence harmonies we cannot understand 
Of God's will in his worlds the strain unfolds : 
In sad perplexed minors. Deathly colds 

Fall on us while we hear and countermand 

Our sanguine heart back from the fancy land, 
With nightingales in visionary wolds. 

We murmur — ' Where is any certain tune, 
Or measured music in such notes as these V 
But angels leaning from the golden seat, 

Are not so minded ; their fine ear hath won 
The issue of completed cadences ; 
And smiling down the stars, they whisper — sweet." 

We are accustomed now to much verse on moral subjects, 
such as follows the lead of Wordsworth and seeks to arrange 
moral convictions as melodies on the harp. But these tones are 
never deep, unless the experience of the poet, in the realms of 
intellect and emotion, be commensurate with his apprehension of 
truth. Wordsworth moves us when he writes an " Ode to Duty," 
or " Dion," because he cculd also write " Ruth," and the exqui. 
sitely tender poems on Matthew, in whom nature 

" — for a favorite child 
Had tempered so the clay, 



200 PAPERS ON LITERATURE AND ART. 

That every hour the heart ran wild, 
Yet never went astray." 

The trumpet call of Luther's ' Judgment Hymn' sounds from 
the depths of a nature capable of all human emotions, or it could 
not make the human ear vibrate as it does. The calm convic- 
tions expressed by Miss Barrett in the sonnets come with poetic 
force, because she was also capable of writing ' The Lost Bower,' 
' The Romaunt of the Page,' ' Loved Once,' ' Bertha in the 
Lane,' and ' A Lay of the Early Rose.' These we select as the 
finest of the tender poems. 

In the ' Drama of Exile' and the ' Vision of Poets,' where she 
aims at a Miltonic flight or Dantesque grasp — not in any spirit 
of rivalry or imita#on, but because she is really possessed of a 
similar mental scope — her success is far below what we find in 
the poems of feeling and experience ; for she has the vision of a 
great poet, but little in proportion of his plastic power. She is 
at home in the Universe ; she sees its laws ; she sympathises 
with its motions. She has the imagination all compact — the 
healthy archetypal plant from which all forms may be divined, 
and, so far as now existent, understood. Like Milton, she sees 
the angelic hosts in real presence ; like Dante, she hears the 
spheral concords and shares the planetary motions. But she 
cannot, like Milton, marshal the angels so near the earth as to 
impart the presence other than by sympathy. He who is near 
her level of mind may, through the magnetic sympathy, see the 
angels with her. Others will feel only the grandeur and sweet- 
ness she expresses in these forms. Still less can she, like Dante, 
give, by a touch, the key which enables ourselves to play on the 
same instrument. She is singularly deficient in the power of 
compression. There are always far more words and verses than 
are needed to convey the meaning, and it is a great proof of her 
strength, that the thought still seems strong, when arrayed in a 
form so Briarean clumsy and many-handed. 



MISS BARRETT'S POEMS. 201 

We compare her with those great poets, though we have read 
her preface and see how sincerely she deprecates any such com- 
parison, not merely because her theme is the same as theirs, but 
because, as we must again repeat, her field of vision and noble- 
ness of conception are such, that we cannot forbear trying her 
by the same high standard to see what she lacks. 

Of the " Drama of Exile" and other poems of the same char- 
acter, we may say that we shall never read them again, but we 
are very glad to have read them once, to see how the grand 
mysteries look to her, to share with her the conception and out- 
line of what would, in the hands of a more powerful artist, have 
come forth a great poem. Our favorite, above anything we 
have read of hers, is the " Rhyme of the Duchess May," equally 
admirable in thought and execution, in poetic meaning and ro- 
mantic grace. 

Were there room here, it should be inserted, as a sufficient 
evidence of the writer's high claims ; but it is too long, and does 
not well bear being broken. The touches throughout are fine 
and forcible, but they need the unison of the whole to give them 
their due effect. 

Most of these poems have great originality in the thought and 
the motive powers. It is these, we suppose, that have made 
" The Brown Rosarie" so popular. It has long been handed 
about in manuscript, and hours have been spent in copying it, 
which would have been spared if the publication of these vol- 
umes in America had been expected so soon. It does not please 
us so well as many of the others. The following, for instance, 
is just as original, full of grace, and, almost, perfectly simple : 

THE ROMANCE OF THE SWAN'S NEST.* 
How sweetly natural ! and how distinct is the picture of the 

• Several poems mentioned in these articles, and published in the first in- 
stance, are omitted now on account of their length. 



202 PAPERS ON LITERATURE AND ART. 

little girl, as she sits by the brook. The poem cannot fail to 
charm all who have treasured the precious memories of their 
own childhood, and remember how romance was there interwoven 
with reality. 

Miss Barrett makes many most fair and distinct pictures, such 
as this of the Duchess May at the fatal moment when her lord's 
fortress was giving way : 

Low she dropt her head and lower, till her hair coiled on the floor. 

Toll slowly! 
And tear after tear you heard, fall distinct as any word 

Which you might be listening for. 
" Get thee in, thou soft ladie! — here is never a place for thee." 

Toll slowly! 
" Braid thy hair and clasp thy gown, that thy beauty in its moan 

May find grace with Leigh of Leigh." 
She stood up in bitter case, with a pale yet steady face, 

Toll slowly ! 
Like a statue thunderstruck, which, though quivering, seems to look 

Right against the thunder-place, 
And her feet trod in, with pride, her own tears i' the stone beside. 

Toll slowly ! 
Go to, faithful friends, go to ! — Judge no more what ladies do, 
No, nor how their lords may ride. 

and so on. There are passages in that poem beyond praise. 

Here are descriptions as fine of another sort of person from 

LADY GERALDINE'S COURTSHIP. 

Her foot upon the new-mown grass — bareheaded — with the flowing 
Of the virginal white vesture, gathered closely to her throat; 
With the golden ringlets in her neck, just quickened by her going, 
And appearing to breathe sun for air, and doubting if to float, — 

With a branch of dewy maple, which her right hand held above her, 
And which trembled a green shadow in betwixt her and the skies,— 
As she turned her face in going, thus she drew me on to love her, 
And to study the deep meaning of the smile hid in her eyes. 



MISS BARRETT'S POEMS. 203 

For her eyes alone smiled constantly : her lips had serious sweetness, 
And her front was calm — the dimple rarely rippled on her cheek : 
But her deep blue eyes smiled constantly, — as if they had by fitness 
Won the secret of a happy dream, she did not care to speak. 

How fine are both the descriptive and critical touches in the 
following passage : 

Ay, and sometimes on the hill-side, while we sat down in the gowans, 
With the forest green behind us, and its shadow cast before ; 
And the river running under ; and across it, from the rowens, 
A brown partridge whirring near us, till we felt the air it bore — 

There, obedient to her praying, did I read aloud the poems 

Made by Tuscan flutes, or instruments, more various, of our own, 

Read the pastoral parts of Spenser — or the subtle interflowings 

Found in Petrarch's sonnets — here's the book — the leaf is folded down ! 

Or at times a modern volume — Wordsworth's solemn-thoughted idyl, 
Howitt's ballad-dew, or Tennyson's god-vocal reverie, — 

Or from Browning some " Pomegranate," which, if cut deep down the middle, 
Shows a heart within, blood-tinctured, of a veined humanity. 

Or I read there, sometimes, hoarsely, some new poem of my making — 
Oh, your poets never read their own best verses to their worth, 
For the echo, in you, breaks upon the words which you are speaking, 
And the chariot-wheels jar in the gate through which you drive them forth. 

After, when we were grown tired of books, the silence round us flinging 
A slow arm of sweet compression, felt with beatings at the breast, — 
She would break out, on a sudden, in a gush of woodland singing, 
Like a child's emotion in a god — a naiad tired of rest. 

Oh, to see or hear her singing ! scarce I know which is divinest — 

For her looks sing too — she modulates her gestures on the tune ; 

And her mouth stirs with the song, like song ; and when the notes are finest, 

Tis the eyes that shoot out vocal light, and seem to swell them on. 

Then we talked — oh, how we talked ! her voice so cadenced in the talking, 
Made another singing — of the soul ! a music without bars — 
While the leafy sounds of woodlands, humming round where we were walking, 
Brought interposition worthy-sweet, — as skies about the stars. 



204 PAPERS ON LITERATURE AND ART. 

And she spake such good thoughts natural, as if she always thought them — ■ 
And had sympathies so ready, open-free like bird on branch, 
Just as ready to fly east as west, which ever way besought them, 
In the birchen wood a chirrup, or a cock-crow in the grange. 

In her utmost lightness there is truth — and often she speaks lightly; 
And she has a grace in being gay, which mourners even approve ; 
For the root of some grave earnest thought is understruck so rightly, 
As to justify the foliage and the waving flowers above." 

We must copy yet one other poem to give some idea of the 
range of Miss Barrett's power. 

THE CRY OP THE CHILDREN. 

If it be said that the poetry, the tragedy here is in the facts, 
yet how rare is it to find a mind that can both feel and upbear 
such facts. 

We have already said, that, as a poet, Miss Barrett is deficient 
in plastic energy, and that she is diffuse. We must add many 
blemishes of overstrained and constrained thought and expression. 
The ways in which words are coined or forced from their habit- 
ual meanings does not carry its excuse with it. We find no 
gain that compensates the loss of elegance and simplicity. One 
practice which has already had its censors of using the adjective 
for the noun, as in the cases of " The cry of the Human," 
" Leaning from the Golden," we, also, find offensive, not only to 
the habitual tastes, but to the sympathies of the very mood 
awakened by the writer. 

We hear that she has long been an invalid, and, while the know- 
ledge of this increases admiration for her achievements and de- 
light, at the extent of the influence, — so much light flowing from 
the darkness of the sick room, — we seem to trace injurious re- 
sults, too. There is often a want of pliant and glowing life. 
The sun does not always warm the marble. We have spoken 
of the great book culture of this mind. We must now say that 
this culture is too great in proportion to that it has received from 



MISS BARRETT'S POEMS 205 

actual life. The lore is not always assimilated to the new form ; 
the illustrations sometimes impede the attention rather than help 
its course ; and we are too much and too often reminded of other 
minds and other lives. 

Great variety of metres are used, and with force and facility. 
But they have not that deep music which belongs to metres which 
are the native growth of the poet's mind. In that case, others 
may have used them, but we feel that, if they had not, he must 
have invented them ; that they are original with him. Miss 
Barrett is more favoured by the grand and thoughtful, than by the 
lyric muse. 

We have thus pointed out all the faults we could find in Miss 
Barrett, feeling that her strength and nobleness deserves this act 
of high respect. She has no need of leniency, or caution. The 
best comment upon such critiques may be made by subjoining 
this paragraph from her Preface : 

" If it were not presumptuous language on the lips of one to whom life is 
more than usually uncertain, my favourite wish for this work would be, that it 
be received by the public as a deposite, ambitious of approaching to the nature of 
a security for a future offering of more value and acceptability. I would fain 
do better, and I feel as if I might do better : I aspire to do better. In any case, 
my poems, while full of faults, as I go forward to my critics and confess, have 
my life and heart in them. They are not empty shells. If it must be said of 
me that I have contributed unworthy verses, I also to the many rejected by the 
age, it cannot, at least be said that I have done so in a light or irresponsible 
spirit. Poetry has been as serious a thing to me as life itself; and life has been 
a very serious thing ; there has been no playing at skittles for me in either. 1 
never mistook pleasure for the final cause of poetry ; nor leisure, for the hour of 
the poet. I have done my work, so far, as work ; not as mere hand and head 
work apart from the personal being, but as the completest expression of that 
being to which I could attain; and, as work, I offer it to the public, feeling its 
faultiness more deeply than any of my readers, because measured from the heigh f 
of my aspiration, but feeling also that the reverence and sincerity with which 
the work was done should protect it in the thoughts of the reverent and sin- 
cere." 

18 



206 PAPERS ON LITERATURE AND ART. 

Of the greatest of Grecian sages it was said that he acquired 
such power over the lower orders of nature, through his purity 
and intelligence, that wild beasts were abashed and reformed by 
his admonitions, and that, once, when walking abroad with his 
disciples, he called down the white eagle, soaring above him, and 
drew from her willing wing a quill for his use. 

We have seen women use with skill and grace, the practical 
goose-quill, the sentimental crow-quill, and even the lyrical, the 
consecrated feathers of the swan. But we have never seen one to 
whom the white eagle would have descended ; and, for a while, 
were inclined to think that the hour had now, for the first time, 
arrived. But, upon full deliberation, we will award to Miss 
Barrett one from the wing of the sea-gull. That is also a white 
bird, rapid, soaring, majestic, and which can alight with ease 
and paise itself upc". the stormiest wave. 



BROWNING'S POEMS. 



Robert Browning is scarcely known in this country, as, in- 
deed, in his own, his fame can spread but slowly, from the nature 
of his works. On this very account, — of the peculiarity of hia 
genius, — we are desirous to diffuse the knowledge that there is 
such a person, thinking and writing, so that those who, here and 
there, need just him, and not another, may know where to turn. 

Our first acquaintance with this subtle and radiant mind was 
through his " Paracelsus," of which we cannot now obtian a copy, 
and must write from a distant memory. 

It is one of those attempts, that illustrate the self-consciousness 
of this age, to represent the fever of the soul pining to embrace 
the secret of the universe in a single trance. Men who are once 
seized with this fever, carry thought upon the heart as a cross, 
instead of finding themselves daily warmed and enlightened to 
more life and joy by the sacred fire to which their lives daily 
bring fresh fuel. 

Sometimes their martyrdoms greatly avail, as to positive 
achievements of knowledge for their own good and that of all 
men ; but, oftener, they only enrich us by experience of the 
temporary limitations of the mind, and the inutility of seeking to 
transcend, instead of working within them. 

Of this desire, to seize at once as a booty what it was intended 
we should legitimately win by gradual growth, alchemy and the 
elixir mi<z were, in the middle ages, apt symbols. In seeking 
how to prolong life, men wasted its exquisite spring-time and 

(207) 



208 PAPERS ON LITERATURE AND ART. 

splendid summer, lost the clues they might have gained by initia- 
tion to the mysteries of the present existence. They sought to 
make gold in crucibles, through study of the laws which govern 
the material world, while within them was a crucible and a fire 
beneath it, whi«'h only needed watching, in faith and purity, and 
they would have turned all substances to treasure, which neither 
moth nor rust could corrupt. 

Paracelsus had one of those soaring ambitions that sought the 
stars and built no nest amid the loves or lures of life. Incapable 
of sustaining himself in angelic force and purity, he tainted, after 
a while, his benefits, by administering them with the arts of a 
charlatan, seeking too ambitiously the mastery of life, he missed 
its best instructions. 

Yet he who means nobleness, though he misses his chosen aim, 
cannot fail to bring down a precious quarry from the clouds. 
Paracelsus won deep knowledge of himself and his God. Love 
followed, if it could not bless him, and the ecstacies of genius 
wove music into his painful dreams. 

The holy and domestic love of Michal, that Ave Maria Stella 
of his stormy life, the devotion of a friend, who living, for him- 
self, in the humility of a genuine priest, yet is moved by the 
pangs of sympathy, to take part against and " wrestle with" 
Heaven in his behalf, the birth and bud of the creative spirit 
which blesses through the "ulness of forms, as expressed in 
Aprile, all are told with a beauty and, still more, a pregnancy, 
unsurpassed amid the works of contemporary minds. 

" Sordello" we have never seen, and have been much disap- 
pointed at not being able to obtain the loan of a copy now existent 
in New England. It is spoken of as a work more thickly en- 
veloped in refined obscurities than ever any other that really had 
a meaning ; and no one acquainted with Browning's mind can 
doubt his always having a valuable meaning, though sometimes 
we may not be willing to take the degree of trouble neoessary to 



BROWNING'S POEMS. 209 

ferret it out. His writings have, till lately, been clouded by ob- 
scurities, his riohes having seemed to accumulate beyond his 
mastery of them. So beautiful are the picture gleams, so full of 
meaning the little thoughts that are always twisting their para- 
sites over his main purpose, that we hardly can bear to wish them 
away, even when we know their excess to be a defect. They 
seem, each and all, too good to be lopped away, and we cannot 
wonder the mind from which they grew was at a loss which to 
reject. Yet, a higher mastery in the poetic art must give him 
skill and resolution to reject them. Then, all true life being con- 
densed into the main growth, instead of being so much scattered 
in tendrils, off-shoots and flower-bunches, the effect would be 
more grand and simple ; nor should we be any loser as to the 
spirit ; it would all be there, only more concentrated as to the 
form, more full, if less subtle, in its emanations. The tendency 
to variety and delicacy, rather than to a grasp of the subject and 
concentration of interest, are not so obvious in Browning's minor 
works as in Paracelsus, and in his tragedy of ' Strafford.' This 
very difficult subject for tragedy engaged, at about the same time, 
the attention of Sterling. Both he and Browning seem to have 
had it brought before their attention by Foster's spirited biogra- 
phy of Strafford. We say it is difficult — though we see how it 
tempted the poets to dramatic enterprise. The main character 
is one of tragic force and majesty ; the cotemporary agents all 
splendid figures, and of marked individuality ; the march of ac- 
tion necessarily rapid and imposing ; the events induced of uni- 
versal interest. But the difficulty is, that the materials are even 
too rich and too familiar to every one. We cannot bear any vio- 
lation of reality, any straining of the common version of this 
story. Then the character and position of Strafford want that 
moral interest which is needed to give full pathos to the catas- 
trophe. We admire his greatness of mind and character, we loathe 
the weakness and treachery of the King ; we dislike the stern 
18* 



210 PAPERS ON LITERATURE AND ART. 

hunters, notwithstanding their patriotic motives, for pursuing to 
the death the noble stag ; and yet we feel he ought to die. We 
wish that he had been killed, not by the hands of men, with their 
spotted and doubtful feelings, but smitten direct by pure fire from 
heaven. Still we feel he ought to die, and our grief wants the 
true tragic element which hallows it in the Antigone, the Lear, 
and even Schiller's " Mary Stuart," or " Wallenstein." 

But of the two, Sterling's conception of the character and 
conduct of the drama is far superior to that of Browning. Both 
dramas are less interesting and effective than the simple outline 
history gives, but Browning weakens the truth in his representa- 
tion of it, while Sterling at least did not falsify the character of 
Strafford, bitter, ruthlessly ambitious, but strong and majestic 
throughout. Browning loses, too, his accustomed originality and 
grace in the details of this work, through a misplaced ambition. 

But believing that our poet has not reached that epoch of mas- 
tery, when he can do himself full justice in a great work, we 
would turn rather to the consideration of a series of sketches, 
dramatic and lyric, which he has been publishing for several 
years, under the title of " Bells and Pomegranates." We do not 
know whether this seemingly affected title is assumed in conform- 
ity with the catch-penny temper of the present day, or whether 
these be really in the mind of Robert Browning no more than the 
glittering fringe of his priestly garment. If so, we shall cherish 
high hopes, indeed, as to the splendors that will wait upon the 
unfolding of the main vesture. 

The plan of these sketches is original, the execution in many 
respects, admirable, and the range of talent and perception they 
display, wider than that of any contemporary poet in England. 

" Pippa Passes" is the title of the first of these little two shil- 
ling volumes, which seem to contain just about as much as a 
man who lives wisely, might, after a good summer of mingled 



BROWNING'S POEMS. 211 

work, business and pleasure, have to offer to the world, as the 
honey he could spare from his hive. 

Pippa is a little Italian girl who works in a silk mill. Once a 
year the workpeople in these mills have an entire day given them 
for their pleasure. She is introduced at sunrise of such a day, 
singing her morning thoughts. She then goes forth to wander 
through the town, singing her little songs of childish gayety and 
purity. She passes, not through, but by, different scenes of life, 
passes by a scene of guilty pleasure, by the conspiracies of the 
malicious, by the cruel undeception of the young sculptor who 
had dared trust his own heart more fully than is the wont of the 
corrupt and cautious world. Every where the notes of her song 
pierce their walls and windows, awakening them to memories of 
innocence and checking the course of misdeed. The plan of this 
work is, it will be seen, at once rich and simple. It admits of an 
enchanting variety, and an unobtrusive unity. Browning has 
made the best use of its advantages. The slides in the magic 
lantern succeed one another with perfect distinctness, but, through 
them all shines the light of this one beautiful Italian day, and the 
little silk winder, its angel, discloses to us as fine gleams of gar- 
den, stream and sky, as we have time to notice while passing such 
various and interesting groups of human beings. 

The finest sketch of these is that of Jules, the sculptor, and 
his young bride. Jules, like many persons of a lofty mould, in 
the uncompromising fervour of youth, makes all those among his 
companions whom he thinks weak, base and vicious, his enviers 
and bitter enemies. A set of such among his fellow-students 
have devised this most wicked plan to break his heart and pride 
at once. They write letters as from a maiden who has distin- 
guished him from the multitude, and knows how to sympathize 
with all his tastes and aims. They buy of her mother a beauti- 
ful young girl, who is to represent the character. The letters 
assume that she is of a family of rank who will not favour the 



212 PAPERS ON LITERATURE AND ART. 

alliance, and when Jules, enchanted by the union of the beauty 
of intellect in the letters and the beauty of person of which he 
has gained glimpses, presses his suit as a lover, rrtarriage is con 
sented to on condition that he shall not seek to converse with her 
till after the ceremony. This is the first talk of Jules after he 
has brought his silent bride to his studio : 

Thou by me 
And I by thee — this is thy hand in mine — 
And side by side we sit — all's true. Thank God 1 
I have spoken — speak thou ! 

— O, my life to come ! 
My Tydeus must be carved that's there in clay, 
And how be carved with you about the chamber 1 
Where must I place you ? When I think that once 
This room full of rough block- work seemed my heaven 
Without you ! Shall I ever work again — 
Get fairly into my old ways again — 
Bid each conception stand while trait by trait 
My hand transfers its lineaments to stone 1 
Will they, my fancies, live near you, my truth — 
The live truth — passing and repassing me — 
Sitting beside me 1 

— Now speak ! 

Only, first, 
Your letters to me — was't not well contrived 1 
A hiding place in Psyche's robe — there lie 
Next to her skin your letters ; which comes foremost 1 
Good — this Chat swam down like a first moonbeam 
Into my world. 

Those 1 Books I told you of. 
Let your first word to me rejoice them, too, — 
This minion of Coluthus, writ in red 
Bistre and azure by Bessarion's scribe — 
Read this line — no, shame — Homer's be the Greek ! 
My Odyssey in coarse black vivid type • 
With faded yellow blossoms 'twixt page and page; 
"He said, and on Antimus directed 
A bitter shaft" — then blots a flower the rest! 



BROWNING'S POEMS. 213 

— Ah, do not mind that — better that will look 

When cast in bronze — an Almaign Kaiser that, 

Swart-green and gold with truncheon based on hip 

This rather, turn to — but a check already — 

Or you had recognized that here you sit 

As I imagined you, Hippolyta 

Naked upon her bright Numidian horse ! 

— Forgot you this thenl " carve in bold relief,"— 

So you command me — "carve against I come 

A Greek, bay filleted and thunder free, 

Rising beneath the lifted myrtle-branch, 

Whose turn arrives to praise Harmodius." — Praise him 

Quite round, a cluster of mere hands and arms 

Thrust in all senses, all ways, from all sides, 

Only consenting at the branches' end 

They strain towards, serves for frame to a sole face — 

(Place your own face) — the Praiser's, who with eyea 

Sightless, so bend they back to light inside 

His brain where visionary forms throng up, 

(Gaze — I am your Harmodius dead and gone,) 

Sings, minding not the palpitating arch 

Of hands and arms, nor the quick drip of wine 

From the drenched leaves o'erhead, nor who cast off 

Their violet crowns for him to trample on — 

Sings, pausing as the patron-ghosts approve, 

Devoutly their unconquerable hymn — 

But you must say a " well" to tnat — say "well" 

Because you gaze — am I fantastic, sweet 1 

Gaze like my very life's stuff, marble — marbly 

Even to the silence — and before I found 

The real flesh Phene, 1 inured myself 

To see throughout all nature varied stuff 

For better nature's birth by means of art: 

With me, each substance tended to one form 

Of beauty — to the human Archetype — 

And every side occurred suggestive germs 

Of that — the tree, the flower — why, take the fruit. 

Some rosy shape, continuing the peach, 

Curved beewise o'er its bough, as rosy limbs 



214 PAPERS ON LITERATURE AND ART. 

Depending nestled in the leaves — and just 

From a cleft rose-peach the whole Dryad sprung ! 

But of the stuffs one can be master of, 

How I divined their capabilities 

From the soft-rinded smoothening facile chalk 

That yields your outline to the air's embrace, 

Down to the crisp imperious steel, so sure 

To cut its one confided thought clean out 

Of all the world : but marble ! — 'neath my tools 

More pliable than jelly — as it were 

Some clear piimordial creature dug from deep 

In the Earth's heart where itself breeds itself 

And whence all baser substance may be worked ; 

Refine it off to air you may — condense it 

Down to the diamond ; — is not metal there 

When o'er the sudden specks my chisel trips 1 

— Not flesh — as flake off flake I scale, approach, 

Lay bare these bluish veins of blood asleep 1 

Lurks flame in no strange windings where surprised 

By the swift implements sent home at once, 

Flushes and glowings radiate and hover 

About its track 1 — 

The girl, thus addressed, feels the wings budding within her, 
that shall upbear her from the birth-place of pollution in whose 
mud her young feet have been imprisoned. Still, her first words 
reveal to the proud, passionate, confiding genius the horrible de- 
ception that has been practised on him. After his first anguish, 
one of Pippa's songs steals in to awaken consoling thoughts. 
He feels that only because his heart was capable of noble trust 
could it be so deceived ; feels too that the beauty which had en- 
chanted him could not be a mere mask, but yet might be vivified 
by a soul worthy of it, and finds the way to soar above his own 
pride and tne opinions of an often purblind world. 

Another song, with which Pippa passes, contains, in its first 
stanza, this grand picture : 



BROWNING'S POEMS. 21,0 

A king lived long ago, 

In the morning of the world, 
When Earth was nigher Heaven than now : 

And the King's locks curled 
Disparting o'er a forehead full 

As the milk-white space 'twixt horn and horn 
Of some sacrificial bull. 

Only calm as a babe new-born ; 
For he has got to a sleepy mood, 
So safe from all decrepitude. 
Age with its bane so sure gone by, 

(The gods so loved him while he dreamed) 
That, having lived thus long there seemed 
No need the King should ever die. 

Luigi — No need that sort of King should ever die. 

Among the rocks his city was ; 

Before his palace, in the sun, 
He sat to see his people pass, 

And judge them every one, 

From its threshold of smooth stone. 

This picture is as good as the Greeks. 

Next came a set of Dramatic Lyrics, all more or t*ss good, 
from which we select 



That's my last Duchess painted on the wall, 
Looking as if she were alive ; I call 
That piece a wonder, now ; Fra Pandolf 's hands 
Worked busily a day, and there she stands. 
Will't please you sit and look at her 1 I said 
" Fra Pandolf" by design, for never read 
Strangers like you that pictured countenance, 
The depth and passion of that earnest glance, 
But to myself they turned (since none puts by 
The curtain I have drawn for you, but I) 
And seemed as they would ask me, if they durst, 
How such a glance came there ; so not the nret 



216 PAPERS ON LITERATURE AND ART. 

Are vou to turn and ask thus. Sir, 'twas not 

Her husband's presence only, called that spot 

Of joy into the Duchess' cheek ; perhaps 

Fra Pandolf chanced to say " Her mantle laps 

" Over my Lady's wrist too much," or " Paint 

" Must never hope to reproduce the fault 

Half-flush that dies along her throat ;" such stuff 

Was courtesy, she thought, and cause enough 

For calling up that spot of joy. She had 

A heart — how shall I say — too soon made glad, 

Too easily impressed ; she liked whate'er 

She looked on, and her looks went every where. 

Sir, 'twas all one ! My favour at her breast, 

The dropping of the daylight in the West, 

The bough of cherries some officious fool 

Broke in the orchard for her, the white mule 

She rode with round the terrace — all and each 

Would draw from her alike the forward speech, 

Or blush, at least. She thanked men — good ; but thanked 

Some how — I know not how — as if she ranked 

My gift of a nine hundred years' old name 

With any body's gift. Who'd stoop to blame 

This sort of trifling ? Even had you skill 

in speech — (which I have not) — could make your will 

Ciuite clear to such an one, and say, " Just this 

" Or that in you disgusts me ; here you miss, 

Or there exceed the mark" — and if she let 

Herself be lessoned so, nor plainly set 

Her wits to yours, forsooth, and made excuse, 

— E'en then would be some stooping, and I chuse 

Never to stoop. Oh, Sir, she smiled, no doubt, 

Whene'er I passed her ; but who passed without 

Much the same smile ? This grew ; I gave commands ; 

Then all smiles stopped together. Ther? she stands 

As if alive. Will't please you rise? We'll meet 

The company below then. I repeat, 

The Count your master's known munificence 

Is ample warrant that no just pretence 

Of mine for dowry will be disallowed ; 

Though his fair daughter's self, as I avowed 



BROWNING'S POEMS. 217 

At starting, is my object. Nay, we'll go 
Together down, Sir ! Notice Neptune, though, 
Taming a sea-horse, thought a rarity, 
Which Claus of Innsbruck cast in bronze for me. 

CRISTINA. 

To this volume succeeded " King Victor and King Charles,' 
"The Return of the Druses," "A Blot in the 'Scutcheon," and 
" Colombe's Birthday." 

The first we do not so much admire, but the other three have 
all the same originality of conception, delicate penetration into 
the mysteries of human feeling, atmospheric individuality, and 
skill in picturesque detail. All four exhibit very high and pure 
ideas of Woman, and a knowledge very rare in man of the ways 
in which what is peculiar in her office and nature works. Her 
loftiest elevation does not, in his eyes, lift her out of nature. She 
becomes not a mere saint, but the goddess-queen of nature. Her 
purity is not cold like marble, but the healthy, gentle energy of 
the flower, instinctively rejecting what is not fit for it, with no need 
of disdain to dig a gulf between it and the lower form* of crea- 
tion. Her office to man is that of the Muse, inspiring him to all 
good thoughts and deeds. The passions that sometimes agitate 
these maidens of his verse, are the surprises of noble hearts, un- 
prepared for evil, and even their mistakes cannot cost bitter tears 
to their attendant angels. 

The girl in the " Return of the Druses" is the sort of nature 
Byron tried to paint in Myrrha. But Byron could only paint 
women as they were to him. Browning can show what they are 
in themselves. 

In " A Blot in the 'Scutcheon" we see a lily, storm-struck, 
half broken, but still a lily. In " Colombe's Birthday" a queenly 
rosebud, which expands into the full glowing rose before our 
eyes. This is marvelous in this drama, how the characters are 
unfolded before us by the crisis, which not only exhibits, but calls 
19 



218 PAPERS ON LITERATURE AND ART. 

„o life, the higher passions and thoughts which were latent within 
them. 

We bless the poet for these pictures of women, which, howeve* 
the common tone of society, by the grossness and levity of the 
remarks bandied from tongue to tongue, would seem to say the 
contrary, declare there is still in the breasts of men a capacity 
for pure and exalting passion, — for immortal tenderness. 

But we must hasten to conclude with some extracts from anothej 
number of " Dramatic Lyrics" lately received. These seem fee 
show that Browning is attaining a more masterly clearness in ex- 
pression, without seeking to popularize, or omitting to heed the 
faintest whisper of his genius. He gains without losing as he 
advances — a rare happiness. 

In the former number was a poem called " The Cloister," and 
in this are two, " The Confessional" and the " Tomb at St. Prax- 
ed's," which are the keenest yet a wisely true satire on the forms 
that hypocrisy puts on in the Romish church. This hateful weed 
grows rank in all cultivated gardens, but it seems to hide itself, 
with great care and adroitness, beneath the unnumbered forms 
and purple gauds of that elaborate system. Accordingly, the 
hypocrites do not seem so bad, individually, as in other churches, 
and the satire is continually softening into humour in the " Tomb 
of St. Praxed's," with its terrible naturalness as to a life-long de- 
ception. Tennyson has described the higher kind with a force 
that will not be surpassed in his Simeon Stylites, but in this piece 
of Browning's, we find the Flemish school of the same vice. 

The " Flight of the Duchess," in its entrancing revelations of 
the human heart, is a boon to think of. We were, however, 
obliged to forbear further extracts, with the exception of two from 
the " Garden Fancies." We regret that these poems, with seve- 
ral others which have been circulated iu " The Tribune," could 
not find room in the present volume. 



BROWNING'S POEMS. 219 

BELLS AND POMEGRANATES : By Robert Browning. No. VIII and 
last. Luria and a Soul's Tragedy. London: Moxon, Dover-st. 1846. 

In closing this series of dramatic and lyrical sketches, Brown- 
ing explains his plan and title thus : 

" Here ends my first series of ' Bells and Pomegranates,' and I take the oppor 
lunity of explaining, in reply to inquiries, that I only meant by that title to in- 
dicate an endeavour toward something like an alternation or mixture of music 
with discoursing, sound with sense, poetry with thought, which looks too ambi- 
tious, thus expressed, so the symbol was preferred. It is little to the purpose 
that such is actually one of the most familiar of the Rabbinical (and Patristic) 
acceptations of the phrase; because I confess that letting authority alone, I sup- 
posed the bare words in such juxtaposition would sufficiently convey the desired 
meaning. ' Faith and good works' is another fancy for instance, and perhaps 
no easier to arrive at ; yet Giotto placed a pomegranate fruit in the hand of 
Dante, and RafFaelle crowned his Theology with blossoms of the same." 

That the poet should have supposed the symbol would be un- 
derstood at once, marks the nature of his mind, a mind which 
soars in the creative element, and can only be understood by those 
who are in a state of congenial activity. 

The two pieces before us display, or rather betray, a deep and 
growing acquaintance with the mysteries of the breast. If one 
tithe of what informs this little pamphlet were brought out into 
clear relief by the plastic power of a Shakspeare, the world would 
stand transfixed before the sad revelation. 

In the first piece, Luria, a Moor, is put in command of the 
Florentine army against Pisa ; but spies are set around him, and 
the base mistress sits in trial on the hero she has won by smiles 
to fight her battles. His great, simple, fiery nature is captivated 
by the grace, deep sagacity and self-possession of the Florentines. 
He glows with delight at feeling in himself the birth of a more 
intellectual life beneath their influence. But when he finds the 
treachery hid beneath all this beautiful sculptured outside, he 
stands amazed, not lost, not overwhelmed, but unable to meet or 



220 PAPERS ON LITERATURE AND ART. 

brave what is so opposite to his own soul. He is, indeed, too no 
ble to resent or revenge, or look on the case other than as God 
may 

Ijuria — In my own East — if you would stoop to help 

My barbarous illustration — it sounds ill, 

Yet there's no wrong at bottom — rather praise. 
Dam.— Well ! 
L/uria. — We have creatures there which if you saw 

The first time, you would doubtless marvel at, 

For their surpassing beauty, craft and strength, 

And tho' it were a lively moment's shock 

Wherein you found the purpose of their tongues — 

That seemed innocuous in their lambent play, 

Yet, once made known, such grace required a guard, 

Your reason soon would acquiesce, I think, 

In th' Wisdom which made all things for the best, 

So take them, good with ill, contentedly— 

The prominent beauty with the secret sting. 

I am glad to have seen you, wondrous Florentines. 

And having seen them, and staked his heart entirely on the 
venture, he went through with them — and lost. He cannot sur- 
vive the shock of their treachery. He arranges all things nobly 
in their behalf, and dies, for he was of that mould, the " precious 
porcelain of human clay" which 

"Breaks with the first fall," 

but not without first exercising a redeeming power upon all the 
foes and traitors round him. His chivalric antagonist, Tiburz^io. 
needed no conversion, for he is one of the noble race who 

"joy to feel 
A foeman worthy of their steel," 

and are the best friends of such a foeman. But the shrewd, 
worldly spy, the supplanted rival, the woman who was guilty of 
that lowest baseness of wishing to make of a lover the tool of her 
purposes, all grow batter by seeing the action of this noble crea- 



BROWNINGS POEMS. 221 

ture under the crucifixion they have prepared for him ; especially 
the feelings of the rival, who learns from his remorse to under- 
stand genius and magnanimity, are admirably depicted. Such 
repentance always comes too late for the one injured ; men kill 
him first, then grow wiser and mourn ; this dreadful and frequent 
tragedy is shown in Luria's case with its full weight of dark sig- 
nificance, spanned by the rainbow beauty that springs from the 
perception of truth and nobleness in the victim. 

The second piece, " A Soul's Tragedy," is another of the deep- 
est tragedies — a man fancying himself good because he was 
harsh, honourable because he was not sweet, truer than the lovely 
and loving natures, because unskilled to use their winning ways. 
His self-deception is revealed to him by means the most original 
and admirably managed. Both these dramas are full of genius; 
both make the heart ache terribly. A text might well suit the 
cover — a text we must all of us learn ever more and more deeply 
to comprehend : " Let him who thinketh he standeth take heed 
lest he fall." 

We hope these eight numbers of " Bells and Pomegranates" 
will now be reprinted here. They would make one volume of 
proper size to take into the woods and fields. 
3 9* 



LIVES OF THE GREAT COMPOSERS; 

HAYDN, MOZART, HANDEL, BACH, BEETHOVEN. 



The lives of the musicians are imperfectly written for this ob- 
vious reason. The soul of the great musician can only be ex- 
pressed in music. This language is so much more ready, flexi- 
ble, full, and rapid than any other, that we can never expect 
the minds of those accustomed to its use to be expressed by act 
or word, with even that degree of adequacy, which we find in 
those of other men. They are accustomed to a higher stimulus, 
a more fluent existence. We must read them in their works ; 
this, true of artists in every department, is especially so of the 
high-priests of sound. 

Yet the eye, wnich has followed with rapture the flight of the 
bird till it is quite vanished in the blue serene, reverts with plea- 
sure to the nest, which it finds of materials and architecture, that, 
if wisely examined, correspond entirely with all previously im- 
agined of the songster's history and habits. The biography of 
the" artist is a scanty gloss upon the grand text of his works, but 
we examine it with a deliberate tenderness, and could not spare 
those half-effaced pencil marks of daily life. 

In vain the healthy reactions of nature have so boldly in our 
own day challenged the love of greatness, and bid us turn from 
Boswellism to read the record of the village clerk. These ob- 
scure men, you say, have hearts also, busy lives, expanding 
souls. Study the simple annals of the poor, and you find there, 

(222) 



LIVES OF THE GREAT COMPOSERS. 223 

only restricted and stifled by accident, Milton, Calderon, or 
Michel Angelo. Precisely for that, precisely because we might be 
such as these, if temperament and position had seconded the soul's 
behest, must we seek with eagerness this spectacle of the occa- 
sional manifestation of that degree of development which we call 
hero, poet, artist, martyr. A sense of the depths of love and 
pity in " our obscure and private breasts" bids us demand to see 
their sources burst up somewhere through the lava of circum- 
stance, and Peter Bell has no sooner felt his first throb of peni- 
tence and piety, than he prepares to read the lives of the saints. 

Of all those forms of life which in their greater achievement 
shadow forth what the accomplishment of our life in the ages 
must be, the artist's life is the fairest in this, that it weaves its 
web most soft and full, because of the material most at com- 
mand. Like the hero, the statesman, the martyr, the artist dif- 
fers from other men only in this, that the voice of the demon 
within the breast speaks louder, or is more early and steadily 
obeyed than by men in general. But colors, and marble, and 
paper scores are more easily found to use, and more under com. 
mand, than the occasions of life or the wills of other men, so 
that we see in the poet's work, if not a higher sentiment, or a 
deeper meaning, a more frequent and more perfect fulfilment 
than in him who builds his temple from the world day by day, or 
makes a nation his canvass and his pallette. 

It is also easier to us to get the scope of the artist's design and 
its growth as the area where we see it does not stretch vision be- 
yond its power. The Sybil of Michel Angelo indeed shares the 
growth of centuries, as much as Luther's Reformation, but the 
first apparition of the one strikes both the senses and the soul, 
the other only the latter, so we look most easily and with liveli- 
est impression at the Sybil. 

Add the benefits of rehearsal and repetition. The grand Na- 
poleon drama could be acted but once, but Mozart's Don Gio 



224 PAPERS ON LITERATURE AND ART. 

vanni presents to us the same thought seven times a week, if we 
wish to yield to it so many. 

The artists too are the young children of our sickly manhood, 
or wearied out old age. On us life has pressed till the form is 
marred and bowed down, but their youth is immortal, invincible, 
to us the inexhaustible prophecy of a second birth. From the 
naive lispings of their uncalculating lives are heard anew the 
tones of that mystic song we call Perfectibility, Perfection. 

Artist biographies, scanty as they are, are always beautiful. 
The tedious cavil of the Teuton cannot degrade, nor the surley 
superlatives of the Italian wither them. If any fidelity be pre- 
served in the record, it always casts new light on their works. 
The exuberance of Italian praise is the better extreme of the 
two, for the heart, with all its blunders, tells truth more easily 
than the head. The records before us of the great composers 
are by the patient and reverent Germans, the sensible, never to 
be duped Englishman, or the sprightly Frenchman ; but a Vasari 
was needed also to cast a broader sunlight on the scene. All ar- 
tist lives are interesting. And those of the musicians, peculiarly 
so to-day, when Music is the living, growing art. Sculpture, 
Painting, Architecture are indeed not dead, but the life they ex- 
hibit is as the putting forth of young scions from an old root. 
The manifestation is hopeful rather than commanding. But mu- 
sic, after all the wonderful exploits of the last century, grows and 
towers yet. Beethoven towering far above our heads, still with 
colossal gesture points above. Music is pausing now to explain, 
arrange, or explore the treasures so rapidly accumulated ; but 
how great the genius thus employed, how vast the promise for 
the next revelation ! Beethoven seems to have chronicled all the 
sobs, the heart-heavings, and god-like Promethean thefts of the 
Earth-spirit. Mozart has called to the sister stars, as Handel and 
Haydn have told to other spheres what has been actually performed 
in this ; surely they will answer through the next magician. 



LIVES OF THE GREAT COMPOSERS. 225 

The thought of the law that supersedes all thoughts, which 
pierces us the moment we have gone far in any department of 
knowledge or creative genius, seizes and lifts us from the ground 
in music. " Were but this known all would be accomplished," 
is sung to us ever in the triumphs of harmony. What the other 
arts indicate and philosophy infers, this all-enfolding language 
declares, nay publishes, and we lose all care for to-morrow or 
modern life in the truth averred of old, that all truth is com- 
prised in music and mathematics. 

By one pervading spirit 
Of tones and numbers all things are controlled, 

As sages taught where faith was found to merit 
Initiation in that mystery old. 

Wordsworth. "Stanzas on the power of sound." 

A very slight knowledge of music makes it the best means of 
interpretation. We meet our friend in a melody as in a glance 
of the eye, far beyond where words have strength to climb ; we 
explain by the corresponding tone in an instrument that trait in 
our admired picture, for which no sufficiently subtle analogy had 
yet been found. Botany had never touched our true knowledge 
of our favourite flower, but a symphony displays the same atti- 
tude and hues; the philosophic historian had failed to explain 
the motive of our favourite hero, but every bugle calls and every 
trumpet proclaims him. He that hath ears to hear, let him hear ! 

Of course we claim for music only a greater rapidity, full- 
ness, and, above all, delicacy of utterance. All is in each and 
each in all, so that the most barbarous stammering of the Hot- 
tentot indicates the secret of man, as clearly as the rudest 
zoophyte the perfection of organized being, or the first stop on 
the reed the harmonies of heaven. But music, by the ready 
medium, the stimulus and the upbearing elasticity it offers for the 
inspirations of thought, alone seems to present a living form 
rather than a dead monument to the desires of Genius. 



226 PAPERS ON LITERATURE AND ART. 

The feeling naturally given by an expression so facile of the 
identity and universality of all thought, every thought, is beauti- 
fully expressed in this anecdote of Haydn. 

When about to compose a symphony he was in the habit of 
animating his genius by imagining some little romance. An 
interesting account of one of these is given in Bombet's life of 
Haydn, p. 75. 

" But when his object was not to express any particular affection, or to 
paint any particular images, all subjects were alike to him. ' The whole 
art consists,' said he, ' in taking up a subject and pursuing it.' Often 
when a friend entered as he was about to compose a piece, he would say 
with a smile, ' Give me a subject,' — ' Give a subject to Haydn ! who would 
have the courage to do so ?' ' Come, never mind,' he would say, ' give me 
anything you can think of,' and you were obliged to obey." 

" Many of his astonishing quartettes exhibit marks of this (piece of dex- 
terity, the French Chevalier is pleased to call it.) They commence with 
the most insignificant idea, but, by degrees, this idea assumes a character ; 
it strengthens, increases, extends itself, and the dwarf becomes a giant be- 
fore our wondering eyes." 

This is one of the high delights received from a musical com- 
position more than from any other work of art, except perhaps 
the purest effusions of lyric poetry, that you feel at once both the 
result and the process. The musician enjoys the great advan- 
tage of being able to excite himself to compose by his instrument. 
This gives him a great advantage above those who are obliged to 
execute their designs by implements less responsive and exciting. 
Bach did not consider his pupils as at all advanced, till they 
could compose from the pure mental harmony, without the out. 
ward excitement of the instrument ; but, though in the hours of 
inspiration the work grows of itself, yet the instrument must be 
of the greatest use to multiply and prolong these hours. We 
find that all these great composers were continually at the piano. 
Haydn seated himself there the first thing in the morning, and 
Beethoven, when so completely deaf, that he could neither tune 



LIVES OF THE GREAT COMPOSERS. 227 

his violin and piano, nor hear the horrible discords he made upon 
them, stimulated himself continually by the manual utterance to 
evolution of the divine harmonies which were lost forever to his 
bodily ear. 

It is mentioned by Bombet, as another advantage which the 
musician possesses over other artists, that — 

" His productions are finished as soon as imagined. Thus Haydn, who 
abounded in such beautiful ideas, incessantly enjoyed the pleasure of 
creation. The poet shares this advantage with the composer ; but the 
musician can work faster. A beautiful ode, a beautiful symphony, need 
only be imagined, to cause, in the mind of the author, that secret admira- 
tion, which is the life and soul of artists. But in the studies of the mili- 
tary man, of the architect, the sculptor, the painter, there is not invention 
enough for them to be fully satisfied with themselves ; further labors are 
necessary. The best planned enterprise may fail in the execution ; the 
best conceived picture may be ill painted ; all this leaves in the mind of 
the inventor an obscurity, a feeling of uncertainty, which renders the 
pleasure of creation less complete. Haydn, on the contrary, in imagining 
a symphony, was perfectly happy; there only remained the physical 
pleasure of hearing it performed, and the moral pleasure of seeing it 
applauded." 

Plausible as this comparison appears at first; the moment you 
look at an artist like Michel Angelo, who, by deep studies and 
intensity of survey, had attained such vigor of conception and 
surety of hand, that forms sprang forth under his touch as fresh, 
as original, and as powerful, as on the first days when there was 
light upon the earth, so that he could not turn his pencil this way 
or that, but these forms came upon the paper as easily as plants 
from the soil where the fit seed falls, — at Raphael, who seemed 
to develop at once in his mind the germ of all possible images, so 
that shapes flowed from his hand plenteous and facile as drops of 
water from the open sluice, we see that the presence of the high- 
est genius makes all mediums alike transparent, and that the 
advantages of one over the other respect only the more or less 



228 PAPERS ON LITERATURE AND ART. 

rapid growth of the artist, and the more or less lively effect on 
the mind of the beholder. All high art says but one thing ; but 
this is said with more or less pleasure by the artist, felt with 
more or less pleasure by the beholder, according to the flexibility 
and fulness of the language. 

As Bombet's lives of Haydn and Mozart are accessible here 
through an American edition, I shall not speak of these masters 
with as much particularity as of the three other artists. Bom- 
bet's book, though superficial, and in its attempts at criticism 
totally wanting in that precision which can only be given by a 
philosophical view of the subject, is lively, informed by a true 
love for beauty, and free from exaggeration as to the traits of 
life which we most care for. The life of Haydn is the better 
of the two, for the calm and equable character of this great man 
made not much demand on insight. It displays throughout the 
natural decorum and freedom from servile and conventional re- 
straints, the mingling of dignity and tenderness, the singleness 
of aim, and childlike simplicity in action proper to the artist life. 
It flowed a gentle, bounteous river, broadening ever beneath the 
smiles of a " calm pouring sun." A manly uniformity makes his 
life intelligible alike to the genius and the citizen. Set the picture 
in its proper frame, and we think of him with great pleasure, sit- 
ting down nicely dressed, with the diamond on his finger given 
him by the King of Prussia, to compose the Creation, or the 
Seven Words. His life was never little, never vehement, and an 
early calm hallowed the gush of his thoughts. We have no 
regret, no cavil, little thought for this life of Haydn. It is sim- 
ply the fitting vestibule to the temple of his works. 

The healthy energy of his nature is well characterized by 
what is said of his " obstinate joy." 

" The magic of his style seems to me to consist in a predominating 
character of liberty and joy. This joy of Haydn is a perfectly natural, 
pure, and continual exaltation ; it reigns in the allegros, it is perceptible 
even in the grave parts, and pervades the andantes in a sensible degree 



LIVES OF THE GREAT COMPOSERS. 229 

" In these compositions, where it is evident from the rhythm, the tone, 
and the general character, that the author intends to inspire melancholy, 
this ohstinate joy, being unable to show itself openly, :s transformed into 
energy and strength. Observe, this sombre gravity is not pain ; it is joy 
constrained to disguise itself which might be called the concentrated joy 
of a savage ; but never sadness, dejection, or melancholy. Haydn has 
never been really melancholy more than, two or three times ; in a verse oi 
his Stabat Mater, and in two of the adagios of the Seven Words. 

" This is the reason why he has never excelled in dramatic music. 
Without melancholy, there can be no impassioned music." 



All the traits of Haydn's course, his voluntary servitude to 
Porpora, his gratitude shown at so dear a rate to his Maecenas, 
the wig-maker, his easy accommodation to the whims of the 
Esterhazies, and his wise views of the advantage derived to his 
talent from being forced to compose nightly a fresh piece for the 
baryton of Prince Nicholas, the economy of his time, and content 
with limited means, each and all show the man moderate be- 
cause so rich, modest because so clear-sighted, robust, ample, 
nobly earnest, rather than fiery and aspiring. It is a great 
character, one that does not rouse us to ardent admiration, but 
always commands, never disappoints. Bombet compares him in 
his works to Ariosto, and the whole structure of his character 
reminds us of the " Ariosto of the North," Walter Scott. Both 
are examples of that steady and harmonious action of the facul- 
ties all through life, so generally supposed inconsistent with gifts 
like theirs ; both exhibit a soil fertile from the bounties of its 
native forests, and unaided by volcanic action. 

The following passage is (to say nothing of its humor) very 
significant on the topic so often in controversy, as to whether 
the descriptive powers of music are of the objective or subjective 
character. 

Of an opera, composed by Haydn to Curtz's order, at the age 
of nineteen — 

20 



230 PAPERS ON LITERATURE AND ART. 

" Haydn often says, that he had more trouble in rinding out a mode ot 
representing the waves in a tempest in this opera, than he afterwards had 
in writing fugues with a double subject. Curtz, who had spirit, and taste, 
was difficult to please ; but there was also another obstacle. Neither of 
the two authors had ever seen either sea or storm. How can a man de- 
scribe what he knows nothing about? If this happy art could be dis- 
covered, many of our great politicians would talk better about virtue. 
Curtz, all agitation, paced up and down the room, where the composer 
was seated at the piano forte. ' Imagine,' said he, * a mountain rising, and 
then a valley sinking ; and then another mountain, and then another 
valley ; the mountains and the valleys follow one after another, with rapid- 
ity, and at every moment, alps and abysses succeed each other.' 

" This fine description was of no avail. In vain did harlequin add the 
thunder and lightning. ' Come describe for me all these horrors,' he re- 
peated incessantly, ' but particularly represent distinctly these mountains 
and valleys.' 

" Haydn drew his fingers rapidly over the key board, ran through the 
semitones, tried abundance of sevenths, passed from the lowest notes of 
the bass to the highest of the treble. Curtz was still dissatisfied. At 
last, the young man, out of all patience, extended his hands to the two 
ends of the harpsichord, and, bringing them rapidly together, exclaimed 
1 The devil take the tempest' ' That's it, that's it,' cried the harlequin, 
springing upon his neck and nearly stifling him. Haydn added, that when 
he crossed the Straits of Dover, in bad weather, many years afterwards, 
he laughed during the whole of the passage in thinking of the storm in 
The Devil on two Sticks. 

" ' But how,' said I to him, * is it possible, by sounds, to describe a tem- 
pest, and that distinctly too ? As this great man is indulgence itself, I 
added, that, by imitating the peculiar tones of a man in terror or despair, 
an author of genius may communicate to an auditor the sensations 
which the sight of a storm would cause ; but,' said I, ' music can no 
more represent a tempest, than say ' Mr. Hadyn lives near the barrier of 
Schonbrunn.' ' You may be right,' replied he, * but recollect, nevertheless, 
that words and especially scenery guide the imagination of the spectator.'" 

Let it be an encouragement to the timidity of youthful genius 
to see t lat an eaglet like Haydn has ever groped and flown so 
sidewise from the aim. 



LIVES OF THE GREAT COMPOSERS. 231 

In later days, though he had the usual incapacity of spontane- 
ous genius, as to giving a reason for the faith that was in him, he 
had also its perfect self-reliance. He, too, would have said, 
when told that the free expression of a thought was contrary to 
rule, that he would make it a rule then, and had no reason to 
give why he put a phrase or note here, and thus, except " It was 
best so. It had the best effect so." The following anecdote ex- 
hibits in a spirited manner the contrast between the free genius 
and the pedant critic. 

" Before Hadyn had lost his interest in conversation, he related with 
pleasure many anecdotes respecting his residence in London. A noble- 
man passionately fond of music, according to his own account, came to 
him one morning, and asked him to give him some lessons in counter- 
point, at a guinea a lesson. Haydn, seeing that he had some knowledge 
of music, accepted his proposal. ' When shall we begin ?' ' Immediate- 
ly, if you please,' replied the nobleman ; and he took out of his pocket a 
quartett of Haydn's. ' For the first lesson,' continued he, ' let us examine 
this quartett, and tell me the reason of certain modulations, and of the 
general management of the composition, which I cannot altogether ap- 
prove, since it is contrary to the rules.' 

" Haydn, a little surprised, said, that he was ready to answer his ques- 
tions. The nobleman began, and, from the very first bar, found something 
to remark upon every note. Haydn, with whom invention was a habit, 
and who was the opposite of a pedant, found himself a good deal embar- 
rassed, and replied continually, ' I did so because it has a good effect ; I 
have placed this passage here, because I think it suitable.' The English- 
man, in whose opinion these replies were nothing to the purpose, still 
returned to his proofs, and demonstrated very clearly, that his quartett was 
good for nothing. • But, my Lord, arrange this quartett in your own way ; 
hear it played, and you will then see which of the two is best.' ' How 
can yours, which is contrary to the rules be the best ? ' ' Because it is 
the most agreeable.' My Lord still returned to the subject. Haydn 
replied as well as he was able ; but, at last, out of patience, • I see, my 
Lord,' said he, ' that it is you who are so good as to give lessons to me, and 
1 am obliged to confess, that I do not merit the honour of having such a 
master.' The advocate of the rules went away, and cannot to this day 



232 PAPERS ON LITERATURE AND ART. 

understand how an author, who adheres to them, should fail of producing 
a Matrimonii) Segreto." 

I must in this connexion, introduce a passage from the life of 
Handel. " The highest effort of genius here (in music) consists 
in direct violations of rule. The very first answer of the 
fugue in the overture to Mucius Scsevola affords an instance of 
this kind. Geminiani. the strictest observer of rule, was so 
charmed with this direct transgression of it, that, on hearing its 
effect, he cried out, Quel semitono (meaning the f sharp) vale un 
mondo. That semitone is worth a world." 

I should exceedingly like to quote the passage on Haydn's 
quartetts, and the comparison between the effect produced by one 
of his and one of Beethoven's. But room always fails us in this 
little magazine. I cannot, however, omit a passage, which gave 
me singular pleasure, referring to Haydn's opinion of the impor- 
tance of the air. For the air is the thought of the piece, and 
ought never to be disparaged from a sense of the full flow of con- 
cord. 

" Who would think it ? This great man, under whose authority our 
miserable pedants of musicians, without genius, would fain shelter them- 
selves, repeated incessantly ; ' Let your air be good, and your composi- 
tion, whatever it be, will be so likewise, and will assuredly please.' 

" • It is the soul of music,' continued he ; ' it is the life, the spirit, the 
essence of a composition. Without this, Tartini may find out the most 
singular and learned chords, but nothing is heard but a labored sound ; 
which, though it may not offend the ear, leaves the head empty and the 
heart cold.' " 

The following passage illustrates happily the principle. 
" Art is called Art, because it is not Nature." 

" In music the best physical imitation is, perhaps, that which only just 
indicates its object; which shows it to us through a veil, and abstains from 
■scrupulously representing nature exactly as she is. This kind of imita- 
tion is the perfection of the descriptive department. You are aware, my 
friend, that all the arts are founded to a certain degree on what is not 



LIVES OP THE GREAT COMPOSERS. 233 

true ; an obscure doctrine, notwithstanding its apparent clearness, but 
from which the most important principles are derived. It is thus that 
from a dark grotto springs the river, which is to water vast provinces. 
You have more pleasure in seeing a beautiful picture of the garden of the 
Tuilleries, than in beholding the same garden, faithfully reflected from one 
of the mirrors of the chateau ; yet the scene displayed in the mirror has 
far more variety of colouring than the painting, were it the work of Claude 
Lorraine; the figures have motion; everything is more true to nature, 
still you cannot help preferring the picture. A skilful artist never departs 
from that degree of falsity which is allowed in the art he professes. He 
is well aware, that it is not by imitating nature to such a degree as to pro- 
duce deception, that the arts give pleasure ; he makes a distinction be- 
tween those accurate daubs, called eye-traps, and the St. Cecilia of 
Raphael. Imitation should produce the effect which the object imitated 
would have upon us, did it strike us in those fortunate moments of sensi- 
bility and enjoyment, which awaken the passions." 

The fault of this passage consists in the inaccurate use of the 
words true and false. Bombet feels distinctly that truth to the 
ideal is and must be above truth to the actual ; it is only because 
he feels this, that he enjoys the music of Haydn at all ; and yet 
from habits of conformity and complaisance he well nigh mars 
his thought by use of the phraseology of unthinking men, who 
apprehend no truth beyond that of facts apparent to the senses. 

Let us pass to the life of Handel. We can but glance at these 
great souls, each rich enough in radiating power to be the centre 
of a world ; and can only hope to indicate, not declare, their 
different orbits and relations. Haydn and Mozart both looked to 
Handel with a religious veneration. Haydn was only unfolded 
to his greatest efforts after hearing, in his latest years, Handel's 
great compositions in England. 

" One day at Prince Schwartzenberg's, when Handel's Messiah was 
performed, upon expressing my admiration of one of the sublime cho- 
ruses of that work, Haydn said to me thoughtfully, This man is the fa- 
ther of us all. 

" I am convinced, that, if he had not studied Handel, he would never 
20* 



234 PAPERS ON LITERATURE AND ART. 

have written the Creation ; his genius was fired by that of this master 
It was remarked by every one here, that, after his return from London, 
there was more grandeur in his ideas ; in short, he approached, as far as 
is permitted to human genius, the unattainable object of his songs. Han- 
del is simple ; his accompaniments are written in three parts only ; but, 
to use a Neapolitan phrase of Gluck's, There is not a note that does not 
draw blood." — Bombet, p. 180. 

" Mozart most esteemed Porpora, Durante, Leo, and Alessandro Scar- 
latti, but he placed Handel above them all. He knew the principal works 
of that great master by heart. He was accustomed to say, Handel knows 
best of all of us what is capable of producing a great effect. When he 
chooses, he strikes like the thunderbolt." — Ibid. p. 291. 

Both these expressions, that of Gluck and that of Mozart, hap- 
pily characterize Handel in the vigor and grasp of his genius, as 
Haydn, in the amplitude and sunny majesty of his career, is 
well compared to the gazing, soaring eagle. 

I must insert other beautiful tributes to the genius of Handel. 

After the quarrel between Handel and many of the English 
nobles, which led to their setting up an opera in opposition to his, 
they sent to engage Hasse and Porpora, as their composers. 
When Hasse was invited over, the first question he asked was, 
whether Handel was dead. Being answered in the negative, 
he long refused to come, thinking it impossible that a nation, 
which might claim the benefit of Handel's genius, could ask aid 
from any other. 

• When Handel was in Italy, Scarlatti saw him first at the car- 
nival, playing on the harpsichord, in his mask. Scarlatti 
immediately affirmed it could be none but the famous Saxon or 
the devil. 

Scarlatti, pursuing the acquaintance, tried Handel's powers 
in every way. 

** When they came to the organ, not a doubt remained as to which the 
preference belonged. Scarlatti himself declared the superiority of his an- 
tagonist, and owned that until he had heard him upon this instrument, he 



LIVES OF THE GREAT COMPOSERS. 235 

had no conception of his powers. So greatly was he struck with his pe- 
culiar way of playing, that he followed him all over Italy, and was never 
so happy as when he was with him. And ever afterwards, Scarlatti, as 
often as he was admired for his own great execution, would mention Han- 
del, and cross himself in token of veneration." — Life of Handel. 

These noble rivalries, this tender enthusiastic conviction of 
the superiority of another, this religious 

— " joy to feel 
A foeman worthy of our steel," 

one instance of which delights us more than all the lonely 
achievements of intellect, as showing the twofold aspect of the 
soul, and linking every nature, generous enough for sym- 
pathy, in the golden chain, which upholds the earth and the hea- 
vens, are found everywhere in the history of high genius. Only 
the little men of mere talent deserve a place at Le Sage's sup- 
per of the authors. Genius cannot be forever on the wing ; it 
craves a home, a holy land ; it carries reliquaries in the bosom ; 
it craves cordial draughts from the goblets of other pilgrims. It 
is always pious, always chivalnc ; the artist, like the Preux, 
throws down his shield to embrace the antagonist, who has been 
able to pierce it ; and the greater the genius, the more do we glow 
with delight at his power of feeling, — need of feeling reverence 
not only for the creative soul, but for its manifestation through 
fellow men. What melody of Beethoven's is more melodious, 
than his letter of regal devotion to Cherubini, or the transports 
with which he calls out on first hearing the compositions of 
Schubert ; " Wahrlich in dem Schubert wohnt ein gottlicher 
Funke." Truly in Schubert dwells a divine fire.* 

But to return to Handel. The only biography of him I have 

* As Schubert's music begins to be known among ourselves, it may be 
interesting to record the names of those songs, which so affected Beetho- 
ven. They are Ossian's Gesange, Die Burgschaf* Die junge Nonne, and 
Die Grenze der Menschheit. 



236 PAPERS ON LITERATURE AND ART. 

seen is a little volume from the library of the University at 
Cambridge, as brief, and, in the opinion of the friend who brought 
it to me, as dry and scanty as possible. I did not find it so. It 
is written with the greatest simplicity, in the style of the days of 
Addison and Steele ; and its limited technology contrasts strongly 
with the brilliancy of statement and infinite " nuances" of the 
present style of writing on such subjects. But the writer is free 
from exaggeration, without being timid or cold ; and he brings 
to his work the requisites of a true feeling of the genius of 
Handel, and sympathy with his personal character. This lies, 
indeed, so deep, that it never occurs to him to give it distinct 
expression ; it is only implied in his selection, as judicious as 
simple, of anecdotes to illustrate it. 

For myself, I like a dry book, such as is written by men who 
give themselves somewhat tamely to the task in hand. I like to 
read a book written by one who had no higher object than mere 
curiosity, or affectionate sympathy, and never draws an infer, 
ence. Then I am sure of the facts more nakedly true, than 
when the writer has any theory of his own, and have the excite- 
ment all the way of putting them into new relations. The present 
is the gentle, faithful narrative of a private friend. He does not 
give his name, nor pretend to anything more than a slight essay 
towards giving an account of so great a phenomenon as Handel. 

The vigour, the ready decision, and independence of Handel's 
character are displayed in almost every trait of his youthful years. 
At seven years old he appears as if really inspired by a guardian 
genius. His father was going to Weissenfels, to visit an elder 
son, established at court there. He refused to take the little 
Handel, thinking it would be too much trouble. The boy, find- 
ing tears and entreaties of no avail, stole out and followed the 
carriage on foot. When his father perceived him persist in this, 
he could resist no longer, but took him into the carriage and 
carried him to Weissenfels. There the Duke, hearing him play 



LIVES OF THE GREAT COMPOSERS. 237 

by accident in the chapel, and finding it was but a little child, 
who had been obliged too to cultivate his talent by stealth, in 
opposition to the wishes of his father, interfered, and removed all 
obstruction from the course of his destiny. 

Like all the great musicians he was precocious. This neces- 
sarily results from the more than usually delicate organization 
they must possess, though, fortunately for the art, none but Mo- 
zart has burnt so early with that resplendence that prematurely 
exhausted his lamp of life. At nine years of age Handel com- 
posed in rule, and played admirably on more than one instru- 
ment. At fifteen he insisted on playing the first harpsichord at 
the Hamburg opera house, and again his guardian genius inter- 
fered in a manner equally picturesque and peculiar. 

" The elder candidate was not unfit for the office, and insisted on the 
right of succession. Handel seemed to have no plea, but that of natural 
superiority, of which he was conscious, and from which he would not 
recede." 

Parties ran high ; the one side unwilling that a boy should 
arrogate a place above a much older man, one who had a prior 
right to the place, the other maintaining that the opera-house 
could not afford to lose so great a composer as Handel gave 
promise of becoming, for a punctilio of this kind. Handel at last 
obtained the place. 

" Determined to make Handel pay dear for his priority, his rival stifled 
his rage for the present, only to wait an opportunity of giving it full vent. 
One day, as they were coming out of the orchestra, he made a push at 
Handel with a sword, which being aimed full at his heart, would forever 
have removed him from the office he had usurped, but for the friendly 
score which he accidentally carried in his bosom, and through which to 
have forced the weapon would have demanded the might of Ajax himself. 
Had this happened in the early ages, not a mortal but would have been 
persuaded that Apollo himself had interfered to preserve him, in the 
shape of a music-book." 



238 PAPERS ON LITERATURE AND AR1. 

The same guardian demon presided always over his outward 
fortunes. His life, like that of Haydn, was one of prosperity. 
The only serious check he ever experienced (at a very late day 
in England) was only so great as to stimulate his genius to mani- 
fest itself by a still higher order of efforts, than before (his ora- 
torios.) And these were not only worthy of his highest aspira 
tions, but successful with the public of his own day. 

It is by no means the case in the arts, that genius must not 
expect sympathy from its contemporaries. Its history shows it 
in many instances, answering as much as prophesying. And 
Haydn, Handel, and Mozart seemed to culminate to a star-gazing 
generation. 

While yet in his teens, Handel met the Grand Duke of Tus- 
cany, who was very desirous to send him to Italy, at his own ex- 
pense, that he might study the Italian music in its native land. 
" But he refused to accept the Duke's offer, though determined to 
go as soon as he could make up a privy purse for the purpose. 
And this noble independency he preserved through life," and we 
may add the twin sister, liberality, for we find scattered through 
his life numerous instances of a wise and princely beneficence. 

When he at last went to Italy, he staid six years, a period of 
inestimable benefit to his growth. I pause with delight at this 
rare instance of a mind obtaining the food it craves, just at the 
time it craves it. The too early and too late, which prevent so 
many " trees from growing up into the heavens," withered no 
hour of Handel's life. True, the compensating principle showed 
itself in his regard, for he had neither patience nor fortitude, 
which the usual training might have given. But it seems as if 
what the man lost, the genius gained, and we cannot be dis- 
pleased at the exception which proves the rule. 

The Italians received him with that affectionate enthusiasm, 
which they show as much towards foreign as native talent. The 
magnanimous delight with which they greeted West, and, as it is 



LIVES OF THE GREAT COMPOSERS. 239 

said, now greet our countryman Powers, which not many years 
since made their halls resound with the cry, " there is no tenor 
like Braham," was heard in shouts of " Viva il caro Sassone !" 
at every new composition given by Handei on their stage. The 
people followed him with rapture ; the nobles had musical festi- 
vals prepared in his honour ; Scarlatti's beautiful homage has 
been mentioned above ; and the celebrated Corelli displayed the 
same modest and noble deference to his instructions. He too 
addressed him as " Caro Sassone." 

A charming anecdote of Corelli is not irrelevant here. 

" A little incident relating to Corelli shows his character so strongly, 
that I shall be excused for reciting it, though foreign to our present pur- 
pose. He was requested one evening to play, to a large and polite com- 
pany, a fine solo which he had lately composed. Just as he was in the 
midst of his performance, some of the number began to discourse together 
a little unseasonably ; Corelli gently lays down his instrument. Being 
asked whether anything was the matter with him ; nothing, he replied, he 
was only afraid that he interrupted the conversation, The elegant pro- 
priety of this silent censure, joined with his genteel and good-humoured 
answer, afforded great pleasure, even to the persons who occasioned it. 
They begged him to resume his instrument, assuring him at the same 
time, that he might depend on all the attention which the occasion re- 
quired, and which his merit ought before to have commanded." — Life of 
Handel. 

His six years' residence in Italy educated Handel's genius into 
a certainty, vigour and command of resources that made his after 
career one track of light. The forty years of after life are one 
continued triumph, a showering down of life and joy on an ex- 
pectant world. 

Although Germany offered every encouragement both from 
people and princes, England suited him best, and became the 
birthplace of his greatest works. For nine years after he began 
to conduct the opera-house, his success with the public and hap- 
piness in his creative life appears to have been perfect. Then 



240 PAPERS ON LITERATURE AND ART. 

he came for brief space amid the breakers. It is, indeed, rather 
wonderful that he kept peace so long with those most refractory 
subjects, the singers, than that it should fail at last. Fail at last 
it did ! Handel was peremptory in his requisitions, the singing- 
birds obstinate in their disobedience ; the public divided, and the 
majority went against Handel. The following little recital of 
one of his many difficulties, with his prima-donnas, exhibits his 
character with amusing fidelity. 

" Having one day some words with Cuzzoni on her refusing to sing Cara 
Immagine in Ottotie, ' Oh Madame,' said he, ' je sais bien que vous etes 
une veritable Diable, mais je vous ferai s$avoir, moi, que je suis Beelze 
bub le Chef des diables.' With this he took her up by the waist, swear- 
ing that, if she made any more words, he would fling her out of the win- 
dow It is to be noted, (adds the biographer with Counsellor Pleydel-like 
facetiousness,) that this was formerly one of the methods of executing 
criminals in Germany, a process not unlike that of the Tarpeian rock, and 
probably derived from it." — Life of Handel. 

Senesino, too, was one of Handel's malcontent aids, the same 
of whom the famous anecdote is told, thus given in the Life of 
Haydn. 

" Senesino was to perform on a London theatre the character qf a ty- 
rant, in I know not what opera ; the celebrated Farinelli sustained that 
of an oppressed prince. Farinelli, who had been giving concerts in the 
country, arrived only a few hours before the representation, and the un- 
fortunate hero and the cruel tyrant saw one another for the first time on 
the stage. When Farinelli came to his first air, in which he supplicates 
for mercy, he sung it with such sweetness and expression, that the poor 
tyrant, totally forgetting himself, threw himself upon his neck and repeat- 
edly embraced him." 

The refined sensibility and power of free abandonment to the 
life of the moment, displayed in this anecdote, had made Senesino 
the darling, the spoiled child of the public, so that they were 
ungrateful to their great father, Handel. But he could not bow 
to the breeze. He began life anew at the risk of the wealth he 



LIVES OF THE GREAT COMPOSERS. 241 

had already acquired, and these difficulties only urged him to 
new efforts. The Oratorio dawned upon his stimulated mind, 
and we may, perhaps, thank the humours of Senesino and Faus- 
tina for the existence of the Messiah. 

The oratorios were not brought forward without opposition. 
That part of the public, which in all ages, walks in clogs on the 
green-sward, and prefers a candle to the sun, which accused So- 
crates of impiety, denounced the Tartuffe of Moliere as irreli- 
gious, which furnishes largely the Oxford press in England, and 
rings its little alarm bell among ourselves at every profound and 
universal statement of religious experience, was exceedingly dis- 
tressed, that Handel should profane the details of biblical history 
by wedding them to his God-given harmonies. Religion, they 
cried, was lost ; she must be degraded, familiarized ; she would 
no longer speak with authority after she had been sung. But, 
happily, owls hoot in vain in the ear of him whose soul is pos- 
sessed by the muse, and Handel, like all the great, could not even 
understand the meaning of these petty cavils. Genius is fear- 
less ; she never fancies herself wiser than God, as prudence 
does. She is faithful, for she has been trusted, and feels the 
presence of God in herself too clearly to doubt his government 
of the world. 

HandeFs great, exertions at this period brought on an attack of 
paralysis, which he cured by a course that shows his untamed, 
powerful nature, and illustrates in a homely way the saying, 
Fortune favors the brave. 

Like Tasso, and other such fervid and sanguine persons, if he 
could at last be persuaded to use a remedy for any sickness, he 
always overdid the matter. As for this palsied arm, — 

" It was thought best for him to have recourse to the vapor baths at Aix- 

la-Chapelle, over which he sat three times as long as hath ever been the 

practice. Whoever knows anything of the nature of these baths, will, 

from this instance, form some idea of his surprising constitution. His 

21 



242 PAPERS ON LITERATURE AND ART. 

Bweats were profuse beyond what can well be imagined. His cure, from 
the manner as well as the quickness with which it was wrought, passed 
with the nuns for a miracle. When, but a few hours from the time of his 
leaving the bath, they heard him at the organ in the principal church, as 
well as convent, playing in a manner so much beyond what they had ever 
heard or even imagined, it is not wonderful, that they should suppose the 
interposition of a higher power." 

He remained, however, some weeks longer at the baths to con- 
firm the cure, thus suddenly effected by means that would have 
destroyed a frame of less strength and energy. The more cruel 
ill of blindness fell upon his latest years, but he had already run 
an Olympian course, and could sit still with the palm and oak 
crowns upon his brows. 

Handel is a Greek in the fullness and summer glow of his na- 
ture, in his directness of action and unrepentant steadfastness. I 
think also with a pleasure, in which I can hardly expect sympa- 
thy, since even his simple biographer shrinks from it with the air 
of " a person of quality," on the fact that he was fond of good 
eating, and also ate a great deal. As he was neither epicure nor 
gourmand, I not only accept the excuse of the biographer, that a 
person of his choleric nature, vast industry and energy, needed 
a great deal of sustenance ; but it seems to me perfectly in char- 
acter for one of his large heroic mould. I am aware that these 
are total abstinence days, especially in the regions of art and ro- 
mance ; but the Greeks were wiser and more beautiful, if less 
delicate than we ; and I am strongly reminded by all that is said 
of Handel, of a picture painted in their golden age. The sub- 
ject was Hercules at the court of Admetus ; in the background 
handmaids are mourning round the corpse of the devoted Alceste, 
while in the foreground the son of Jove is satisfying what seem 
to his attendants an interminable hunger. They are heaping 
baskets, filling cans, toiling up the stairs with huge joints of 
meat ; the hero snaps his fingers, impatient for the new course, 
though many an empty trencher bears traces of what he has 



LIVES OF THE GREAT COMPOSERS. 243 

already devoured. For why; a journey to Tartarus and con- 
quest of gloomy Dis would hardly, in the natural state of society, 
be undertaken on a biscuit and a glass of lemonade. And when 
England was yet fresh from her grand revolution, and John Bull 
still cordially enjoyed his yule logs and Christmas feasts, " glo- 
rious John Dryden" was not ashamed to write thus of the heroes,— 

" And when the rage of hunger was appeased." 

Then a man was not ashamed of being not only a man in mind, 
but every inch a man. And Handel surely did not neglect to 
labour after he had feasted. Beautiful are the upward tending, 
slender stemmed plants ! Not less beautiful and longer lived, 
those of stronger root, more powerful trunk, more spreading 
branches ! Let each be true to his law ; concord, not monotony, 
is music. We thank thee, Nature, for Handel, we thank thee for 
Mozart ! Yet one story from the Life of Handel ere we pass on. 
It must interest all who have observed the same phenomenon of a 
person exquisitely alive to the music of verse, stupified and be- 
vildered by other music. 

" Pope often met Handel at the Earl of Burlington's. One day after 
Handel had played some of the finest things he ever composed, Mr. Pope 
declared that they gave him no sort of pleasure ; that his ears were of that 
untoward make, and reprobate cast, as to receive his music, which he was 
persuaded was the best that could be, with as much indifference as the 
airs of a common ballad. A person of his excellent understanding, it is 
hard to suspect of affectation. And yet it is as hard to conceive how an 
ear, so perfectly attentive to all the delicacies of rhythm and poetical 
numbers, should be totally insensible to the charm of musical sounds. An 
attentiveness, too, which was as discernible in his manner of reading, as 
it is in his method of writing." — Life of Handel. 

The principal facts of that apparition which bore the name of 
Mozart, are well known. His precocious development was far 
more precocious than that of any other artist on record. (And 
liere let us observe another correspondence between music and 



244 PAPERS ON LITERATURE AND ART. 

mathematics, that is, the early prodigies in childish form, whicl 
seem to say that neither the art nor the science requires the slow 
care of the gardener, Experience, but are plants indigenous to the 
soil, which need only air and light to lure them up to majestic 
stature.) Connected with this is his exquisite delicacy of organ- 
ization, unparalleled save in the history of the fairy Fine Ear, so 
that at six years old he perceived a change of half a quarter of 
a note in the tuning of a violin, and fainted always at sound of 
the trumpet. The wonderful exploits which this accurate per- 
ception of and memory for sounds enabled him to perform, are 
known to every one, but I could read the story a hundred times 
yet, so great is its childish beauty. Again, allied with this are 
his extreme tenderness and loving nature. In this life (Schlich- 
tegroll's, translated by Bombet) it is mentioned, " He would say 
ten times a day to those about him, ' Do you love me well V and 
whenever in jest they said ' No,' the tears would roll down his 
cheeks." I remember to have read elsewhere an anecdote of the 
same engaging character. " One day, when Mozart, (then in 
his seventh year,) was entering the presence chamber of the em- 
press, he fell and hurt himself. The other young princesses 
laughed, but Marie Antoinette took him up, and consoled him 
with many caresses. The little Mozart said to her, " You are 
good ; I will marry you." Well for the lovely princess, if com- 
mon men could have met and understood her lively and genial 
nature as genius could, in its childlike need of love. 

With this great desire for sympathy in the affections was 
linked, as by nature it should be, an entire self-reliance in action. 
Mozart knew nothing but music ; on that the whole life of his 
soul was shed, but there he was as unerring and undoubting, as 
fertile and aspiring. 

" At six years of age, sitting down to play in presence of the emperor 
Francis, he addressed himself to his majesty and asked ; * Is not M. 
Wagenseil here? "Ve must send for him; he understands the tiling.' 



LIVES OF THE GREAT COMPOSERS. 245 

The emperor sent for Wagenseil, and gave up his place to him oj the 
side of the piano. • Sir,' said Mozart to the composer, * I am going to 
play one of your concertos ; you must turn over the leaves for me.' The 
emperor said, in jest, to the little Wolfgang; ' It is not very difficult to 
play with all one's fingers, but to play with only one, without seeing the 
keys, would indeed be extraordinary.' Without manifesting the least sur- 
prise at this strange proposal, the child immediately began to play with a 
single finger, and with the greatest possible precision and clearness. He 
afterwards desired them to cover the keys of the piano, and continued to 
play in the same manner, as if he had long practiced it. 

From his most tender age, Mozart, animated with the true feeling of his 
art, was never vain of the compliments paid him by the great. He only 
performed insignificant trifles when he had to do with people unacquainted 
with music. He played, on the contrary, with all the fire and attention 
of which he was capable, when in the presence of connoisseurs ; and his 
father was often obliged to have recourse to artifice, in order to make the 
great men, before whom he was to exhibit, pass for such with him." 

Here, in childlike soft unconsciousness, Mozart acts the same 
part that Beethoven did, with cold imperial sarcasm, when the 
Allied Sovereigns were presented to him at Vienna. " I held 
myself ' vornehm,' " said Beethoven, that is, treated them with 
dignified affability ; and his smile is one of saturnine hauteur, as 
he says it ; for the nature, so deeply glowing towards man, was 
coldly disdainful to those who would be more than men, merely 
by the aid of money and trappings. Mozart's attitude is the 
lovelier and more simple ; but Beethoven's lion tread and shake 
of the mane are grand too. 

The following anecdote shows, that Mozart (rare praise is this) 
was not less dignified and clear-sighted as a man than in his 
early childhood. 

" The Italians at the court of the Emperor, Joseph the Second, spoke 
of Mozart's first essays (when he was appointed chapel-master) with more 
jealousy than fairness, and the emperor, who scarcely ever judged for him 
self, waa easily carried away by their decisions. One day after hearing the 
rehearsal of a comic opera, which he had himself demanded of Mozart, 
21* 



246 PAPERS ON LITERATURE AND ART 

he eaid to the composer, ' My dear Mozart, that is too fine for my ears, 
there are too many notes there.' ■ I ask your majesty's pardon,' replied 
Mozart, dryly ; ' there are just as many notes as there should be.' The 
emperor said nothing, and appeared rather embarrassed by the reply ; bul 
when the opera was performed, he bestowed on it the greatest enco 
miums." 

This anecdote certainly shows Joseph the Second to be not a 
mean man, if neither a sage nor a connoisseur. 

Read in connexion with the foregoing, the traits recorded of 
the artist during his wife's illness, (Life of Mozart, p. 309,) and 
you have a sketch of a most beautiful character. 

Combined with this melting sweetness, and extreme delicacy, 
was a prophetic energy of deep-seated fire in his genius. He 
inspires while he overwhelms you. The vigour, the tenderness, 
and far-reaching ken of his conceptions, were seconded by a 
range, a readiness, and flexibility in his talents for expression, 
which can only be told by the hackneyed comparison between 
him and Raphael. A life of such unceasing flow and pathetic 
earnestness must at any rate have early exhausted the bodily 
energies. But the high-strung nerves of Mozart made him ex- 
cessive alike in his fondness for pleasure, and in the melancholy 
which was its reaction. His life was too eager and keen to last. 
The gift of presentiment, as much developed in his private his- 
tory as in his works, offers a most interesting study to the philo- 
sophic ohserver, but one of too wide a scope for any discussion 
here. 

I shall not speak of Mozart as a whole man, for he was not so ; 
but rather the exquisite organ of a divine inspiration. He scarce 
ly took root on the soil ; not knowing common purposes, cares, 
or discretions, his life was all crowded with creative efforts, and 
vehement pleasures, or tender feelings between. His private 
character was that of a child, as ever he loved to be stimulated 
to compose by having fairy tales told to him by the voice of 



LIVES OF THE GREAT COMPOSERS. 247 

affection. And when we consider how any art tends to usurp 
the whole of a man's existence, and music most of all to unfit for 
other modes of life, both from its stimulus to the senses and ex- 
altation of the soul, we have rather reason to wonder that the 
other four great ones lived severe and manlike lives, than that this 
remained a voluptuary and a fair child. The virtues of a chila 
he had, — sincerity, tenderness, generosity, and reverence. In 
the generosity with which he gave away the precious works of his 
genius, and the princely sweetness with which he conferred 
these favours, we are again reminded of Raphael. There are 
equally fine anecdotes 'of Haydn's value for him, and his for 
Haydn. Haydn answered the critics of "Don Giovanni," "I 
am not a judge of the dispute ; all that I know is, that Mozart is 
the greatest composer now existing." Mozart answered the 
critic on Haydn, " Sir, if you and I were both melted down 
together, we should not furnish materials for one Haydn." 

Richard Cceur de Lion and Saladin ! , 

We never hear the music of Mozart to advantage, yet no one 
can be a stranger to the character of his melodies. The idea 
charms me of a symbolical correspondence, not only between 
the soul of man and the productions of nature, but of a like har- 
mony, pervading every invention of his own. It seems he has 
not only " builded better than he knew," when following out the 
impulse of his genius, but in every mechanical invention, so that 
all the furniture of man's life is necessarily but an aftergrowth 
of nature. It seems clear that not only every hue, every gem, 
every flower, every tree, has its correspondent species in the race 
of man, but the same may be said of instruments, as obviously 
of the telescope, microscope, compass. It is clearly the case 
with the musical instruments. As a child I at once thought of 
Mozart as the Flute, and to this day, cannot think of one without 
the other. Nothing ever occurred to confirm this fancy, till a 



248 " PAPERS ON LITERATURE AND ART. 

year or two since, in the book now before me, I found with de« 
light the following passage. 

" The most remarkable circumstance in his music, independently of 
the genius displayed in it, is the novel way in which he employs the 
orchestra, especially the wind instruments. He draws surprising effect 
from the flute, an instrument of which Cimarosa hardly ever made any 
use " 

Ere bidding adieu to Mozart, to whom I have only turned your 
eyes, as the fowler directs those of the by-standers to the bird 
glancing through the heavens, which he had not skill to bring 
down, and consoles himself with thinking the fair bird shows 
truer, if farther, on the wing, I will insert three sonnets, so far 
interesting as showing the degree of truth with which these ob- 
jects appear to one, who has enjoyed few opportunities of hearing 
the great masters, and is only fitted to receive them by a sincere 
love of music, which caused a rejection of the counterfeits that 
have been current -among us. They date some years back, and 
want that distinctness of expression, so attainable to-day ; but, if 
unaided by acquaintance with criticism on these subjects, have 
therefore the merit of being a pure New England growth, and 
deserve recording like Sigismund Biederman's comparison of 
Queen Margaret to his favourite of the Swiss pasture. " The 
queen is a stately creature. The chief cow of the herd, who 
carries the bouquets and garlands to the chalet, has not a statelier 
pace." — Anne of Geierstein. 

INSTRUMENTAL MUSIC. 

The charms of melody, in simple airs, 

By human voices sung, are always felt ; 

With thoughts responsive, careless hearers melt, 
Of secret ills, which our frail nature bears. 

We listen, weep, forget. But when the throng 
Of a great Master's thoughts, above the reach 
Of words or colors, wire and wood can teach 



LIVES OP THE GREAT COMPOSERS. 249 

By laws which to the spirit-world belong,— 
When several parts, to tell one mood combined, 

Flash meaning on us we can ne'er express, 
Giving to matter subtlest powers of Mind, 

Superior joys attentive souls confess. 
The harmony which suns and stars obey, 
Blesses our earth-bound state with visions of supernal day. 

BEETHOVEN. 
Most intellectual master of the art, 

Which, best of all, teaches the mind of man 

The universe in all its varied plan, — 
What strangely mingled thoughts thy strains impart ! 
Here the faint tenor thrills the inmost heart, 

There the rich bass the Reason's balance shows ; 

Here breathes the softest sigh that Love e'er knows ; 
There sudden fancies, seeming without chart, 

Float into wildest breezy interludes ; 
The past is all forgot, — hopes sweetly breathe, 
And our whole being glows, — when lo ! beneath 

The flowery brink, Despair's deep sob concludes ! 
Startled, we strive to free us from the chain, — 
Notes of high triumph swell, and we are thine again ! 

MOZART. 
If to the intellect and passions strong 

Beethoven speak, with such resistless power, 

Making us share the full creative hour, 
When his wand fixed wild Fancy's mystic throng, 
Oh nature's finest lyre ! to thee belong 

The deepest, softest tones of tenderness, 

Whose purity the listening angels bless, 
With silvery clearness of seraphic song. 
Sad are those chords, oh, heavenward striving soul I 

A love, which never found its home on earth, 

Pensively vibrates, even in thy mirth, 
And gentle laws thy lightest notes control ; 
Yet dear that sadness ! Spheral concords felt 
Purify most those hearts which most they melt. 



250 PAPERS ON LITERATURE AND ART. 

We have spoken of the widely varying, commanding, yet, 
bright and equable life of Haydn ; of the victorious procession, 
and regal Alexandrine aspect of Handel ; of the tender, beloved, 
overflowing, all too intense life of Mozart. They are all great 
and beautiful ; look at them from what side you will, the foot 
stands firm, the mantle falls in wide and noble folds, and the eye 
flashes divine truths. But now we come to a figure still more 
Roman, John Sebastian Bach, all whose names we give to dis- 
tinguish him from a whole family of geniuses, a race through 
which musical inspiration had been transmitted, without a break, 
for six generations ; nor did it utterly fail, after coming to its full 
flower in John Sebastian ; his sons, though not equal to their 
father, were not unworthy their hereditary honours. 

The life of Bach which I have before me, (translated from 
the German of J. N. Forkel, author also of the " Complete His- 
tory of Music,") is by far the best of any of these records. It is 
exceedingly brief and simple, very bare of facts, but the wise, 
quiet enthusiasm of its tone, and the delicate discrimination of the 
remarks on the genius of Bach, bring us quite home to him and 
his artist-life. Bach certainly shines too lonely in the sky of his 
critic, who has lived in and by him, till he cannot see other souls 
in their due places, but would interrupt all hymns to other deities 
with " Great is Diana of the Ephesians !" But his worship is 
Irue to the object, if false to the All, and the pure reverence of 
his dependence has made him fit to reproduce the genius which 
has fed his inmost life. All greatness should enfranchise its ad- 
mirers, first f/om all other dominions, and then from its own. 
We cannot but think that Forkel has seen, since writing this 
book, that he deified Bach too exclusively, but he can never feel 
the shame of blind or weak obsequiousness. His, if idolatry, was 
yet in the spirit of true religion. 

The following extract from the preface, gives an idea of the 
spirit in which the whole book is written. 



LIVES OP THE GREAT COMPOSERS. 251 

" How do I wish I were able to describe, according to its merit, the 
sublime genius of this first of all artists, whether German or foreign ! 
After the honour of being so great an artist, so preeminent above all as he 
was, there is perhaps no greater than that of being able duly to appreciate 
so entirely perfect an art, and to speak of it with judgment. He who can 
do the last, must have a mind not wholly uncongenial to that of the artist 
himself, and has therefore, in some measure, the flattering probability in 
his favour, that he might perhaps have been capable of the first, if similar 
external relations had led him into the proper career. But I am not so 
presumptuous as to believe, that I could ever attain to such an honour. I 
am, on the contrary, thoroughly convinced, that no language in the world 
is rich enough to express all that might and should be said of the astonish- 
ing extent of such a genius. The more intimately we are acquainted with 
it, the more does our admiration increase. All our eulogiums, praises, 
and admiration, will always be, and remain no more than well- meant prat- 
tle. Whoever has had an opportunity of comparing together the works of 
art, of several centuries, will not find this declaration exaggerated ; he will 
rather have adopted the opinion, that Bach's works cannot be spoken of, 
by him who is fully acquainted with them, except with rapture, and some 
of them even with a kind of sacred awe. We may indeed conceive and 
explain his management of the internal mechanism of the art ; but how 
he contrived at the same time to inspire into this mechanic art, which he 
alone has attained in such high perfection, the living spirit which so pow- 
erfully attaches us even in his smallest works, will probably be always 
felt and admired only, but never conceived." 

Of the materials for this narrative he says, 

"I am indebted to the two eldest sons of J. S. Bach. I was not only 
personally acquainted with both, but kept up a constant correspondence 
with them for many years, chiefly with C. Ph. Emanuel. The world 
knows that they were both great artists ; but it perhaps does not know thai 
to the last moment of their lives they never spoke of their father's genius 
without enthusiasm and admiration. As I had from my early youth felt 
the same veneration for the genius of their father, it was a frequent theme 
of discussion with us, both in our conversations and correspondence. This 
made me by degrees so acquainted witl everything relative to J. S. Bach's 
life, genius, and works, that I may now hope to be able to give to the pub- 
lic not only some detailed, but also useful information on the subject. 

" I have no other object whatever than to call the attention of the pub 



252 PAPERS ON LITERATURE AND ART. 

lie to an undertaking, the sole aim of which is to raise a worthy raonu« 
ment to German art, to furnish the true artist with a gallery of the most 
instructive models, and to open to the friends of musical science an inex- 
haustible source of the sublimest enjoyment." 

The deep, tender repose in the contemplation of genius, the 
fidelity in the details of observation, indicated in this passage, are 
the chief requisites of the critic. But he should never say of 
any object, as Forkel does, it is the greatest that ever was 01 
ever will be, for that is limiting the infinite, and making himself 
a bigot, gentle and patient perhaps, but still a bigot. All are 
so who limit the divine within the boundaries of their present 
knowledge. 

The founder of the Bach family (in its musical phase) was a 
Thuringian miller. " In his leisure hours he amused himself 
with his guitar, which he even took with him into the mill, and 
played upon it amidst all the noise and clatter." The same love 
of music, for its own sake, continued in the family for six gen- 
erations. After enumerating the geniuses who illustrated it be- 
fore the time of John Sebastian, Forkel says, 

" Not only the above-mentioned, but many other able composers of the 
earlier generations of the family might undoubtedly have obtained much 
more important musical offices, as well as a more extensive reputation, and 
a more brilliant fortune, if they had been inclined to leave their native 
province, and to make themselves known in other countries. But we do 
not find that any one of them ever felt an inclination for such an emigra- 
tion. Temperate and frugal by nature and education, they required but 
little to live ; and the intellectual enjoyment, which their art procured 
them, enabled them not only to be content without the gold chains, which 
used at that time to be given by great men to esteemed artists, as especial 
marks of honour, but also without the least envy to see them worn by others, 
who perhaps without these chains would not have been happy." 

Nothing is more pleasing than the account of the jubilee which 
this family had once a year. As they were a large family, and 
scattered about in different cities, they met once a year and had 
this musical festival. 



LIVES OP THE GREAT COMPOSERS. 253 

" Their amusements during the time of their meeting were entirely mu- 
sical. As the company wholly consisted of chanters, organists, and town 
musicians, who had all to do with the Church, and as it was besides a gen- 
eral custom to begin everything with religion, the first thing they did, 
when they were assembled, was to sing a hymn in chorus. From this pi- 
ous commencement they proceeded to drolleries, which often made a very 
great contrast with it. They sang, for instance, popular songs, the con- 
tents of which are partly comic and partly licentious, all together, and ex- 
tempore, but in such a manner that the several songs thus extemporized 
made a kind of harmony together, the words, however, in every part being 
different. They called this kind of extemporary chorus ' a Quodlibet,' 
and not only laughed heartily at it themselves, but excited an equally 
hearty and irresistible laughter in every body that heard them. Some 
persons are inclined to consider these facetiae as the beginning of comic 
operettas in Germany ; but such quodlibets were usual in Germany at a 
much earlier period. I possess myself a printed collection of them, which 
was published at Vienna in 1542." 

In perfect harmony with what is intimated of the family, of 
their wise content, loving art, purely and religiously for its own 
sake, unallured by ambition or desire for excitement, deep and 
true, simple and modest in the virtues of domestic life, was the 
course of the greatest of them, John Sebastian. No man of 
whom we read has lived more simply the grand, quiet, manly 
life, " without haste, without rest." Its features are few, its out- 
line large and tranquil. His youth was a steady aspiration to 
the place nature intended him to fill ; as soon as he was in that 
place, his sphere of full, equable activity, he knew it, and was 
content. After that he was known by his fruits. As for out- 
ward occasions and honours, it was with him as always with the 
u Happy Warrior," who must 

" In himself possess his own desire 
Who comprehends his trust, and to the same 
Keeps faithful with a singleness of aim ; 
And therefore does not stoop, nor lie in wait 
For wealth, or honours, or for worldly state ; 
22 



254 PAPERS ON LITERATURE AND ART. 

v Whom they must follow, on whose head must fall, 
Like showers of manna, if they come at all." 

A pretty story of his childhood shows that he was as earnest 
in the attainment of excellence, as indifferent to notoriety. 

" J. S. Bach was left an orphan at ten years of age, and was obliged to 
have recourse to an elder brother, John Christopher, who was organist at 
Ordruff. From him he received the first instructions in playing on the 
clavichord. But his inclination and talent for music must have been al- 
ready very great at that time, since the pieces which his brother gave him 
to learn were so soon in his power, that he began with much eagerness to 
look out for some that were more difficult. He had observed that his 
brother had a book, in which were pieces by the most famous composers 
of the day, such as he wanted, and earnestly begged him to give it him. 
But it was constantly denied. His desire to possess the book was increased 
by the refusal, so that he at length sought means to get possession of it 
secretly. As it was kept in a cupboard, which had only a lattice door, and 
his hands were still small enough to pass through, so that he pould roll up 
the book, which was merely stitched in paper, and draw it out, he did 
not long hesitate to make use of these favorable circumstances. But, for 
want of a candle, he could only copy it in moonlight nights ; and it took 
six whole months before he could finish his laborious task. At length, 
when he thought himself safely possessed of the treasure, and intended to 
make good use of it in secret, his brother found it out, and took from him, 
without pity, the copy which had cost him so much pains ; and he did not 
recover it till his brother's death, which took place soon after." 

Without pity indeed ! What a tale is told by these few words 
of all the child suffered from disappointment of the hopes and. 
plans, which had been growing in his heart all those six months 
of secret toil ; hopes and plans too, so legitimate, on which a true 
parent or guardian would have smiled such delighted approval ! 
One can scarcely keep down the swelling heart at these instances 
of tyranny to children, far worse than the knouts and Siberia 
of the Russian despot, in this, that the domestic tyrant cannot be 
wholly forgetful of the pain he is inflicting, though he may be too 
stupid or too selfish to forsee the consequences of these early 



LIVES OP THE GREAT COMPOSERS. 255 

wrongs, through long years of mental conflict. A nature so 
strong and kindly as that of Bach could not be crushed in such 
ways. But with characters of less force the consequences are 
more cruel. I have known an instance of life-long injury from 
such an act as this. An elder brother gave a younger a book ; 
then, as soon as the child became deeply interested in reading it, 
tore out two or three leaves. Years after the blood boiled, and 
the eyes wept bitter tears of distrust in human sympathy, at re- 
membrance of this little act of wanton wrong. And the conduct 
of Bach's brother is more coldly cruel. 

. The facts of his life are simple. Soon his great abilities dis- 
played themselves, so as to win for him all that he asked from life, 
a moderate competency, a home, and a situation in which he could 
cultivate his talents with uninterrupted perseverance. A silent 
happiness lit up his days, deliberately, early he grew to giant 
stature, deeply honoured wherever known, only not more widely 
known because indifferent to being so. No false lure glitters on 
his life from any side. He was never in a hurry, nor did he 
ever linger on the syren shore, but passed by, like Orpheus, not 
even hearing their songs, so rapt was he in the hymns he was 
singing to the gods. 

Haydn is the untouched green forest in the fulness of a June 
day ; Handel the illuminated garden, where splendid and worldly 
crowds pause at times in the dark alleys, soothed and solemnized 
by the white moonlight ; with Mozart the nightingale sings, and 
the lonely heron waves his wings, beside the starlit, secret lake, 
on whose bosom gazes the white marble temple. Bach is the 
towering, snowy mountain, " itself earth's Rosy Star," and the 
green, sunny, unasking valley, all in one. Earth and heaven 
ara not lonely while such men live to answer to their mean, 
mg. 

I had marked many passages which gi ye a clear idea of Bach'a 
vast intellectual comprehension, of the happy balance between 



256 PAPERS ON LITERATURE AND ART. 

the intuitive and the reasoning powers in his nature, the depth 
of his self-reliance, the untiring severity of his self-criticism, and 
the glad, yet solemn religious fulness of his mental life. But al- 
ready my due limits are overstepped, and I am still more desir- 
ous to speak at some length of Beethoven. I shall content my- 
self with two or three passages, which not only indicate the pecu- 
liar scope of this musician, but are of universal application to 
whatever is good in art or literature. 

Bombet mentions this anecdote of Jomelli. 

" On arriving at Bologna, he went to see the celebrated Father Martini, 
without making himself known, and begged to be received into the num- 
ber of his pupils. Martini gave him a subject for a fugue ; and finding 
that he executed it in a superior manner, ' Who are you ? ' said he, ' are 
you making game of me ? It is I who need to learn of you.' ' I am 
Jomelli, the professor, who is to write the opera to be performed here 
next autumn, and I am come to ask you to teach me the great art of never 
being embarrassed by my own ideas.' " 

There seems to have been no time in Bach's life when he 
needed to ask this question, the great one which Genius ever 
asks of Friendship. He did not need to flash out into clearness 
in another atmosphere than his own. Always he seems the mas- 
ter, possessing, not possessed by, his idea. These creations did 
not come upon him as on the ancient prophets, dazzling, unex- 
pected, ever flowing from the centre of the universe. He was 
not possessed by the muse ; he had not intervals of the second 
sight. The thought and the symbol were one with him, and like 
Shakspeare, he evolved from his own centre, rather than was 
drawn to the centre. He tells the universe by living a self-cen- 
tred world. 

As becomes the greatest, he is not hasty, never presumptuous. 
We admire it in the child Mozart, that he executed at once the 
musical tour de force prepared by the Emperor Francis. We 
admire still more Bach's manly caution and sense of the impor- 



LIVES OF THE GREAT COMPOSERS. 257 

tance of his art, when visiting, at an advanced age, the grea 
Frederic, who seems to have received him king-like. 

" The musicians went with him from room to room, and Bach was in- 
vited everywhere to try and to play unpremeditated compositions. After 
he had gone on for some time, he asked the King to give him a subject 
for a fugue, in order to execute it immediately, without any preparation. 
The King admired the learned manner in which his subject was thua 
executed extempore ; and, probably to see how far such art could be car- 
ried, expressed a wish to hear a fugue with six obligate parts. But as it is 
not every subject that is fit for such full harmony, Bach chose one him- 
self, and immediately executed it, to the astonishment of all present, in 
the same magnificent and learned manner as he had done that of the 
King." 

The following anecdote shows the same deeply intellectual 
modesty and candour, and when compared with the inspired rapid, 
ity of Mozart, marks the distinction made by the French between 
" une savante originalite" and " une rayonnante onginalite." 

" He at length acquired such a high degree of facility, and, we may 
almost say, unlimited power over his instrument in all the modes, that 
there were hardly any more difficulties for him. As well in his unpre- 
meditated fantasies, as in executing his other compositions, in which it is 
well known that all the fingers of both hands are constantly employed. 
and have to make motions which are as strange and uncommon as the 
melodies themselves ; he is said to have possessed such certainty that he 
never missed a note. He had besides such an admirable facility in reading 
and executing the compositions of others, (which, indeed, were all easier 
than his own,) that he once said to an acquaintance, that he really be- 
lieved he could play everything, without hesitating, at the first sight. He 
was, however, mistaken ; and the friend, to whom he had thus expressed his 
opinion, convinced him of it before a week was passed. He invited him 
one morning to breakfast, and laid upon the desk of his instrument, among 
other pieces, one which at the first glance appeared to be very trifling. 
Bach came, and, according to his custom, went immediately to the instru- 
ment, partly to play, partly to look over the music that lay on the desk. 
While he was turning over and playing them, his friend went into the 
next room to prepare breakfast. In a few minutes, Bach got to the piece 
22* 



258 PAPERS ON LITERATURE AND ART. 

which was destined to make him change his opinion, and began to play 
it. But he had not proceeded far when he came to a passage at which be 
stopped. He looked at it, began anew, and again stopped at the same 
passage. ' No,' he called out to his friend, who was laughing to himself 
in the next room, at the same time going away from the instrument, * one 
cannot play everything at first eight ; it is not possible.' " 

A. few more extracts which speak for themselves. 

" The clavichord and the organ are nearly related, but the style and 
mode of managing both instruments are as different as their respective 
destination. What sounds well, or expresses something on the clavichord, 
expresses nothing on the organ, and vice versa. The best player on the 
clavichord, if he is not duly acquainted with the difference in the destina- 
tion and object of the two instruments, and does not know constantly how 
to keep it in view, will always be a bad performer on the organ, as indeed 
is usually the case. Hitherto I have met with only two exceptions. The 
one is John Sebastian himself, and the second his eldest son, William 
Friedemann. Both were elegant performers on the clavichord ; but, when 
they came to the organ, no trace of the harpsichord player was to be per- 
ceived. Melody, harmony, motion, all was different ; that is, all was 
adapted to the nature of the instrument and its destination. When I heard 
Will Friedemann on the harpsichord, all was delicate, elegant, and agree- 
able. When I heard him on the organ, I was seized with reverential awe 
There, all was pretty, here, all was grand and solemn. The same was the 
case with John Sebastian, but both in a much higher degree of perfection 
W. Friedemann was here but a child to his father, and he most frankly 
concurred in this opinion. The organ compositions of this extraordinary 
man are full of the expression of devotion, solemnity, and dignity ; but his 
unpremeditated voluntaries on the organ, where nothing was lost in wri- 
ting down, are said to have been still more devout, solemn, dignified, and 
sublime. What is it that is most essential in this art ? I will say what I 
know ; much, however, cannot be said, but must be felt." 

Then after some excellent observations upon the organ, he 
Bays, 

" Bach, even in his secular compositions, disdained every thing com- 
mon ; but in his compositions for the organ, he kept himself far more dis- 
tant from it; so that here he does not appear like a man, but as a true dis- 
enj jodied spirit, who soars above everything mortal." 



LIVES OF THE GREAT COMPOSERS. 259 

It does indeed seem, from all that is said of Bach on this score, 
that, as the organ was his proper instrument, and represents him, 
as the flute or violin might Mozart, so he that heard him on i! 
enjoyed the sense of the true Miltonic Creation, thought too 
plenteous to be spoken of as rill, or stream, or fountain, but roll- 
ing and surging like a tide, marking its course by the largo 
divisions of seas and continents. 

I wish there was room to quote the fine story of the opera house 
at Berlin, p. 34, which shows how rapid and comprehensive was 
his intellectual sight in his own department ; or the remarks on 
the nature of his harmony in that it was a multiplied melody, pp. 
42, 43, or on the severe truth and dignity of his conduct to his 
pupils and the public, p. 76. But I must content myself with 
the following passages, which, beside, lose much by mutilation. 

" The ideas of harmony and modulation can scarcely be separated, so 
nearly are they related to each other. And yet they are different. By 
harmony we must understand the concord or coincidence of the various 
parts ; by modulation, their progression. 

" In most composers you find that their modulation, or if you will, their 
harmony, advances slowly. In musical pieces to be executed by numer- 
.ous performers, in large buildings, as, for example, in churches, where a 
loud sound can die away but slowly, this arrangement indisputably shows 
the prudence of a composer, who wishes to have his work produce the 
best possible effect. But in instrumental or chamber music, that slow pro- 
gress is not a proof of prudence, but, far oftener, a sign that the composer 
was not sufficiently rich in ideas. Bach has distinguished this very well. 
In his great vocal compositions, he well knew how to repress his fancy, 
which, otherwise, overflowed with ideas ; but, in his instrumental music 
this reserve was not necessary. As he, besides, never worked for the 
crowd, but always had in his mind his ideal of perfection, without any 
view to approbation or the like, he had no reason whatever for giving less 
than he had, and could give, and in fact he has never done this. Hence 
in the modulation of his instrumental works, every advance is a new 
thought, a constantly progressive life and motion, within the circle of the 
modes chosen, and those nearly related to them. Of the harmony which 
he adopts he retains the greatest part, but, at every advance he mingles 



260 PAPERS ON LITERATURE AND ART. 

something related to it ; and in this manner he proceeds to the end of » 
piece, so softly, so gently, and gradually, that no leap, or harsh transition 
is to be felt; and yet no bar (I may almost say, no part of a bar,) is like 
another. With him, every transition was required to have a connexion 
with the preceding idea, and appears to be a necessary consequence of it. 
He knew not, or rather he disdained those sudden sallies, by which many 
composers attempt to surprise their hearers. Even in his chromatics, the 
advances are so soft and tender, that we scarcely perceive their distances, 
though often very great." 

"In other departments he had rivals; but in the fugue, and all the 
kinds of canon and counterpoint related to it, he stands quite alone, and so 
alone, that all around him, is, as it were, desert and void. * * * 
It (his fugue) fulfils all the conditions which we are otherwise accustomed 
to demand, only of more free species of composition. A highly charac- 
teristic theme, an uninterrupted principal melody, wholly derived from it, 
and equally characteristic from the beginning to the end ; not mere accom- 
paniment in the other parts, but in each of them an independent melody, 
according with the others, also from the beginning to the end ; freedom, 
lightness, and fluency in the progress of the whole, inexhaustible variety 
of modulation combined with perfect purity ; the exclusion of every arbi- 
trary note, not necessarily belonging to the whole ; unity and diversity in 
the style, rhythmus, and measure ; and lastly, a life diffused through the 
whole, so that it sometimes appears to the performer or hearer, as if every 
single note were animated ; these are the properties of Bach's fugue, — 
properties which excite admiration and astonishment in every judge, who 
knows what a mass of intellectual energy is required for the production of 
such works. I must say still more. All Bach's fugues, composed in the 
years of his maturity, have the above-mentioned properties in common ; 
they are all endowed with equally great excellencies, but each in a differ- 
ent manner. Each has his own precisely defined character ; and depen- 
dent upon that, its own turns in melody and harmony. When we know 
and can perform one, we really know only one, and can perform but one y 
whereas we know and can play whole folios full of fugues by other com- 
posers of Bach's time, as soon as we have comprehended and rendered fa- 
miliar to our hand, the turns of a single one. 

He disdained any display of his powers If they were made 
obvious otherwise than in the beauty and fullness of what was 
produced, it was in such a way as this. 



LIVES OF THE GREAT COMPOSERS. 261 

" In musical parties, where quartettes or other fuller pieces of instru- 
mental music were performed, he took pleasure in playing the tenor. 
With this instrument, he was, as it were, in the middle of the harmony, 
whence he couid both hear and enjoy it, on both sides. When an oppor- 
tunity offered, in such parties, he sometimes accompanied a trio or other 
pieces on the harpsichord. If he was in a cheerful mood, and knew that 
the composer of the piece, if present, would not take it amiss, he used 
to make extempore out of the figured bass a new trio, or of three single 
parts a quartette. These, however, are the only cases in which he proved 
to others how strong he was. 

" He was fond of hearing the music of other composers. If he heard 
in a church a fugue for a full orchestra, and one of his two eldest sons 
stood near him, he always, as soon as he had heard the introduction to 
the theme, said beforehand what the composer ought to introduce, and 
what possibly might be introduced. If the composer had performed his 
work well, what he had said happened ; then he rejoiced, and jogged his 
son to make him observe it." 

He did not publish a work till he was forty years of age. He 
never laid aside the critical file through all his life, so that an 
edition of his works, accompanied by his own corrections, would 
be the finest study for the musician. 

This severe ideal standard, and unwearied application in real- 
izing it, made his whole life a progress, and the epithet old, which 
too often brings to our minds associations of indolence or decay, 
was for him the title of honour. It is noble and imposing when 
Frederic the Second says to his courtiers, " with a kind of agita- 
tion, ' Gentlemen, Old Bach has come.' " 

" He laboured for himself, like every true genius ; he r ulfilled his own 
wish, satisfied his own taste, chose his subjects according to his own 
opinion, and lastly, derived the most pleasure from nis own approbation. 
The applause of connoisseurs could not then fail him, and, in fact, never 
did fail him. How else could a real work of art be produced ? The artist, 
who endeavours to make his works so as to suit some particular class of 
amateurs, either has no genius, or abuses it. To follow the prevailing 
aste of the many, needs, at the most, some dexterity in a very partial 
manner of Seating tones. Artists of this description may «e compared to 



262 PAPERS ON LITERATURE AND ART. 

the mechanic, who must also make his goods so that his customers can 
make use of them. Bach never submitted to such conditions. He thought 
the artist may form the public, but that the public does not form the 
artist." 

But it would please me best, if I could print here the whole of 
the concluding chapter of this little book. It shows a fulness 
and depth of feeling, objects are seen from a high platform of cul- 
ture, which make it invaluable to those of us who are groping in 
a denser atmosphere after the beautiful. It is a slight scroll, 
which implies ages of the noblest effort, and so clear a perception 
of laws, that its expression, if excessive in the particular, is never 
extravagant on the whole ; a true and worthy outpouring of 
homage, so true that its most technical details suggest the canons 
by which all the various exhibitions of man's genius are to be 
viewed, and silences, with silver clarion tone, the barking of 
partial and exclusive connoisseurship. The person who should 
republish such a book in this country would be truly a benefactor. 
Both this and the Life of Handel I have seen only in the London 
edition. The latter is probably out of print ; but the substance 
of it, or rather the only pregnant traits from it have been given 
here. This life of Bach should be read, as its great subject 
should be viewed, as a whole. 

The entertaining memoir of Beethoven by Ries and Wegeler 
has been, in some measure, made known to us through the 
English periodicals. I have never seen the book myself. That to 
which I shall refer is the life of Beethoven by Schindler, to whom 
Beethoven confided the task of writing it, in case of the failure 
of another friend, whom he somewhat preferred. 

Schindler, if inadequate to take an observation of his subject 
from any very high point of view, has the merit of simplicity, 
fidelity, strict accuracy according to his power of discerning, 
and a devout reverence both for the art, and this greatest ex- 
emplar of the art. He is one of those devout Germans who can 



LIVES OF THE GREAT COMPOSERS. 263 

cling for so many years to a single flower, nor feel that they have 
rifled all its sweets. There are in Rome, Germans who give 
their lives to copy the great masters in the art of painting, nor 
ever feel that they can get deep enough into knowledge of the 
beauty already produced to pass out into reproduction. They 
would never weary through the still night of tending the lights 
for the grand Mass. Schindler is of this stamp ; a patient stu- 
dent, most faithful, and, those of more electric natures will per. 
haps say, a little dull. 

He is very indignant at the more sprightly sketches of Ries 
and Bettina Brentano. Ries, indeed, is probably inaccurate ir. 
detail, yet there is a truth in the whole impression received from 
him. It was in the first fervour of his youth that he knew Bee- 
thoven ; he was afterwards long separated from him ; in his book 
we must expect to see rather Ries, under the influence of Beetho- 
ven, than the master's self. Yet there is always deeper truth in 
this manifestation of life through life, if we can look at it aright, 
than in any attempt at an exact copy of the original. Let only 
the reader read poetically, and Germany by Madame de Stael, 
Wallenstein by Schiller, Beethoven by Ries, are not the less true 
for being inaccurate. It is the same as with the Madonna by 
Guido, or by Murillo. 

As for Bettina, it was evident to every discerning reader thai 
the great man never talked so ; the whole narration is overflowed 
with Bettina rose-colour. Schindler grimly says, the good Bet- 
tina makes him appear as a Word Hero ; and we cannot but 
for a moment share his contempt, as we admire the granite lacon- 
ism of Beethoven's real style, which is beyond any other, the short 
hand of Genius. Yet " the good Bettina" gives us the soul of the 
matter. Her description of his manner of seizing a melody 
and then gathering together from every side all that belonged to 
it, and the saying, " other men are touched by something good. 
\rtists are fiery ; they do not weep," are Beethoven's, whemer 



264 PAPERS ON LITERATURE AND ART. 

he really said them or not. " You say that Shakspeare never 
meant to express this ! What then ? his genius meant it !" 

The impression Schindler gives of Beethoven differs from that 
given by Ries or Bettina only in this, that the giant is seen 
through uncoloured glass ; the lineaments are the same in all tho 
three memoirs. 

The direction left by Beethoven himself to his biographer is as 
follows. " Tell the truth with severe fidelity of me and all con- 
nected with me, without regard to whom it may hit, whether 
others or myself." 

He was born 17th Dec. 1770. It is pleasing to the fancy to 
know that his mother's name was Maria Magdalena. She died 
when he was seventeen, so that a cabalistic number repeats itself 
the magical three times in the very first statement of his destiny. 

The first thirty years of his life were all sunshine. His ge- 
nius was early acknowledged, and princely friends enabled him 
to give it free play, by providing for his simple wants in daily 
life. Notwithstanding his uncompromising democracy, which, 
from the earliest period, paid no regard to rank and power, but 
insisted that those he met should show themselves worthy as men 
and citizens, before he would have anything to do with them, he 
was received with joy into the highest circles of Vienna. Van 
Swieten, the emperor's physician, one of those Germans, who, 
after the labors of the day, find rest in giving the whole night to 
music, and who was so situated that he could collect round him 
all that was best in the art, was one of his firmest friends. Prince 
and Princess Lichnowsky constituted themselves his foster-pa- 
rents, and were not to be deterred from their wise and tender 
care by the often perverse and impetuous conduct of their adopted 
son, who indeed tried them severely, for he was (ein gewaltig 
natur) " a vehement nature," that broke through all limits and 
always had to run his head against a barrier, before he could be 
convinced of its existence. Of the princess, Beethoven says : 



LIVES OF THE GREAT COMPOSERS. 265 

" With love like that of a grandmother, she sought to educate and 
foster me, which she carried so far as often to come near having 
a glass bell put over me, lest somewhat unworthy should touch or 
even breathe on me." Their house is described as " eine frei- 
hafen der Humanitat und feinem sitte," the home of all that is 
genial, noble and refined. 

In these first years, the displays of his uncompromising nature 
affect us with delight, for they have not yet that hue of tragedy, 
which they assumed after he was brought more decidedly into op- 
position with the world. Here wildly great and free, as after- 
wards sternly and disdainfully so, he is, waxing or waning, still 
the same orb ; here more fairly, there more pathetically noble. 

He early took the resolution, by which he held fast through 
life, " against criticisms or attacks of any kind, so long as they 
did not touch his honour, but were aimed solely at his artist-life, 
never to defend himself. He was not indifferent to the opinion of 
the good, but ignored as much as possible the assaults of the bad, 
even when they went so far as to appoint him a place in the mad 
house." For that vein in human nature, which has flowed un- 
exhausted ever since the days of " 1 am not mad, most noble Fes- 
tus," making men class as magic or madness all that surpasses 
the range of their comprehension and culture, manifested itself 
in full energy among the contemporaries of Beethoven. When 
he published one of his greatest works, the critics declared him 
" now (in the very meridian of his genius) ripe for the mad-house." 
For why ? " We do not understand it ; we never had such 
thoughts ; we cannot even read and execute them." Ah men ! 
almost your ingratitude doth at times convince that you are 
wholly unworthy the visitations of the Divine ! 

But Beethoven " was an artist-nature ;" he had his work to do, 
and could not stop to weep, either pitying or indignant tears. 
" If it amuses those people to say or to write such things of me, 
23 



266 PAPERS ON LITERATURE AND ART. 

do not disturb them," was his maxim, to which he remained true 
through all the calamities of his " artist-life." 

Gentleness and forbearance were virtues of which he was inca- 
pable. His spirit was deeply loving, but stern. Incapable him- 
self of vice or meanness, he could not hope anything from men 
that were not so. He could not try experiments ; he could not 
pardon. If at all dissatisfied with a man, he had done with him 
forever. This uncompromising temper he carried out even in 
his friendliest relations. The moment a man ceased to be impor- 
tant to him or he to the man, he left off* seeing him, and they did 
not meet again, perhaps for twenty years. But when they did 
meet, the connexion was full and true as at first. The incon- 
veniences of such proceedings in the conventional world are ob- 
vious, but Beethoven knew only the world of souls. 

" In man he saw only the man. Rank and wealth were to him mere 
accidents, to which he attached no importance. To bow before Mammon 
and his ministers he considered absolute blasphemy ; the deepest degra- 
dation to the man who had genius for his dower. The rich man must 
show himself noble and beneficent, if he would be honoured by the least 
attention from Beethoven." " He thought that the Spirit, the Divine in 
man, must always maintain its preeminence over the material and tem- 
porary ; that, being the immediate gift of the Creator, it obliged its pos- 
sessor to go before other men as a guiding light." 

How far his high feeling of responsibility, and clear sight of 
his own position in the universe were from arrogance, he showed 
always by his aversion to servile homage. He left one of his 
lodging houses because the people would crowd the adjacent 
bridge to gaze on him as he went out ; another because the aris- 
tocratic proprietor, abashed before his genius, would never meet 
him without making so many humble reverences, as if to a do- 
mesticated god. He says, in one of the letters to Julietta, " I am 
persecuted by kindness, which I think I wish to deserve as little 
as I really do deserve it. Humility of man before man, — it pains 
me ; and when I regard myself in connexion with the universe, 



LIVES OF THE GREAT COMPOSERS. 267 

what am 1 1 and what h he whom they name Greatest ? And 
yet there is the godlike in man." 

" Notwithstanding the many temptations to which he was exposed, he, 
like each other demigod, knew how to preserve his virtue without a stain. 
Thus his inner sense for virtue remained ever pure, nor could he suffer 
anything about him of dubious aspect on the moral side. In this respect 
he was conscious of no error, but made his pilgrimage through life in un- 
touched maidenly purity. The serene muse, who had so highly gifted and 
elected him to her own service, gave in every wise to his faculties the up- 
ward direction, and protected him, even in artistical reference, against the 
slightest contact with vulgarity, which, in life as in art, was to him a tor 
ture." — " Ah, had he but carried the same clearness into the busine?? 
transactions of his life ! " 

So sighs the friend, who thinks his genius was much impeded 
by the transactions, in which his want of skill entangled him with 
sordid, contemptible persons. 

Thus in unbroken purity and proud self-respect, amid princely 
bounties and free, manly relations, in the rapid and harmonious 
development of his vast powers, passed the first thirty years of 
his life. But towards the close of that period, crept upon hirr. 
the cruel disorder, to him of all men the most cruel, which im- 
mured him a prisoner in the heart of his own kingdom, and beg- 
gared him for the rest of his life of the delights he never ceased 
to lavish on others. 

After his fate was decided he never complained, but what lay 
m the secret soul is shown by the following paper. 

" During the summer he lived at Heiligenstadt, by the advice of hi9 
physician, and in the autumn wrote the following testament : — 
"For my brothers Carl and Beethoven. 

" ye men, who esteem or declare me unkind, morose, or misanthropic, 
what injustice you do me ; you know not the secret causes of that which 
so seems. My heart and my mind were from childhood disposed to the 
tender feelings of good will. Even to perform great actions was I ever 
disposed. But think only that for six years this ill has been growing upon 



268 PAPERS ON LITERATURE AND ART. 

me, made worse by unwise physicians ; that from year to year I have noet, 
deceived in the hope of growing better; finally constrained to the survey 
of this as a permanent evil, whose cure will require years, or is perhaps 
impossible. Born with a fiery, lively temperament, even susceptible to 
the distractions of society, must I early sever myself, lonely pass my life. 
If I attempted, in spite of my ill, intercourse with others, how cruelly 
was I then repulsed by the doubly gloomy experience of my bad hearing ; 
and yet it was not possible for me to say to men, speak louder, scream, for 
I am deaf! Ah, how would it be possible for me to make known the 
weakness of a sense which ought to be more perfect in me than in others, 
a sense which I once possessed in the greatest perfection, in a perfection 
certainly beyond most of my profess.on. I cannot do it Therefore 
pardon, if you see me draw back when I would willingly mingle with 
you. My misfortune is a double woe, that through it I must be misunder- 
stood. For me the refreshment of companionship, the finer pleasures of 
conversation, mutual outpourings can have no place. As an exile must 
I live ! If I approach a company, a hot anguish falls upon me, while I 
fear to be put in danger of exposing my situation. So has it been this 
half year that I have passed in the country. The advice of my friendly 
physician, that I should spare my hearing, suited well my present disposi- 
tion, although many times I have let myself be misled by the desire for 
society. But what humiliation, when some one stood near me, and from 
afar heard the flute, and I heard nothing, or heard the Shepherd sing,* 
and I heard nothing. Such occurrences brought me near to despair; lit- 
tle was wanting that I should, myself, put an end to my life. Only she, 
Art, she held me back ! Ah ! it seemed to me impossible to leave the 
world before I had brought to light all which lay in my mind. And so I 
lengthened out this miserable life, so truly miserable, as that a swift 
change can throw me from the best state into the worst. Patience, it is 
said, I must now take for my guide. I have so. Constant, I hope, shall 
my resolution be to endure till the inexorable Fates shall be pleased to 
break the thread. Perhaps goes it better, perhaps not, I am prepared. 
Already in my twenty-eighth year constrained to become a philosopher. 
It is not easy, for the artist harder than any other man. O God, thou 
lookest down upon my soul, thou knowest that love to man and inclination 
to well-doing dwell there. men, when you at some future time read 
this, then think that you have done me injustice, and the unhappy, let 



LIVES OF THE GREAT COMPOSERS. 269 

him be comforted by finding one of his race, who in defiance of all 
hindrances of nature has done all possible to him to be received in the 

rank of worthy artists and men. You, my brothers, Carl and *, so 

soon as I am dead, if Professor Schmidt is yet living, pray him in my 
name that he will describe my disease, and add this writing to the account 
of it, that at least as much as possible the world may be reconciled with 
me after my death. At the same time I declare you two the heirs of my little 
property, (if I may call it so). Divide it honourably, agree, and help one 
another. What you have done against me has been, as you know, long 
since pardoned. Thee, brother Carl, I especially thank for thy lately 
shown attachment. My wish is that you may have a better life, freer from 
care than mine. Recommend to your children virtue, that alone can 
make happy, not gold. I speak from experience. For this it was that 
raised up myself from misery ; this and my art I thank, that I did not end 
my life by my own hand. Farewell and love one another. All friends I 
thank, especially Prince Lichnowsky and Professor Schmidt. I wish the 
instruments given me by Prince L. to be preserved with care by one of 
you, yet let no strife arise between you on that account. So soon as 
they are needed for some more useful purpose, sell them. Joyful am I 
that even in the grave I may be of use to you. Thus with joy may I greet 
death ; yet comes it earlier than I can unfold my artist powers, it will, 
notwithstanding my hard destiny, come too early, and I would wish it de- 
layed ; however I would be satisfied that it freed me from a state of end- 
less suffering. Come when thou wilt, I go courageously to meet thee. 
Farewell, and forget me not wholly in death ; I have deserved that you 
should not, for in my life I thought often of you, and of making you 
happy ; be so. 

" Ludwig van Beethoven. 
"Heiligenstadt, 6th October, 1802." 

" Postscript. 10th October, 1802. 
" So take I then a sad farewell of thee. Yes ! the beloved hope, which 
I brought hither, to be cured at least to a certain point, must now wholly 
leave me. As the leaves fall in autumn, are withered, so has also this 
withered for me. Almost as I came hither, so go I forth, even the high 
courage, which inspired me oft in the fair summer days, is vanished. 
Providence, let once again a clear day of joy shine for me, so long already 

• He seems to have forgotten at the moment the name of his younger brother. 

23* 



270 PAPERS ON LITERATURE AXD ART. 

has the inward echo of true joy been unknown to me. When, when, 
God, can I feel it again in the temple of nature and of man? — Never: 
No ! that would be too cruel ! " 

The deep love shown in these words, love such as only proud 
and strong natures know, was not only destined to be wounded 
in its general relations with mankind through this calamity. 
The woman he loved, the inspiring muse of some of his divinest 
compositions, to whom he writes, " Is not our love a true heavenly 
palace, also as firm as the fortress of heaven," was unworthy. 
In a world where millions of souls are pining and perishing for 
want of an inexhaustible fountain of love and grandeur, this soul, 
which was indeed such an one, could love in vain. This eldest 
son, this rightful heir of nature, in some secret hour, writes at 
this period, " Only love, that alone could give thee a happier 
life. O my God, let me only find at last that which may strength, 
en me in virtue, which to me is lawful. A love which is per- 
mitted, (erlaubt)." 

The prayer was unheard. He was left lonely, unsustained, 
unsolaced, to wrestle with, to conquer his fate. Pierced here in 
the very centre of his life, exposed both by his misfortune and a 
nature which could neither anticipate nor contend with the de- 
signs of base men, to the anguish of meeting ingratitude on every 
side, abandoned to the guardianship of his wicked brothers, Bee- 
thoven walked in night, as regards the world, but within, the 
heavenly light ever overflowed him more and more. 

Shall lesser beings repine that they do not receive their dues 
in this short life with such an example before them, how large 
the scope of eternal justice must be? Who can repine that 
thinks of Beethoven ? His was indeed the best consolation of life. 
" To him a God gave to tell what he suffered," as also the deep 
joys of knowledge that spring from suffering. As he descends 
to " the divine deeps of sorrow," and calls up, with spells known 
only to those so initiated, forms so far more holy, radiant, an(3 



LIVES OF THE GREAT COMPOSERS. 271 

commanding than are known in regions of cheerful light, can we 
wish him a happier life ? He has Been baptized with fire, others 
only with water. He has given all his life and won the holy- 
sepulchre and a fragment, at least, of the true cross. The solemn 
command, the mighty controul of various forces which makes 
us seem to hear 

" Time flowing in the middle of the night, 
And all things (rushing) to the day of doom," 

the searching through all the caverns of life for the deepest 
thought, and the winged uprise of feeling when it is attained ; 
were not these wonders much aided by the calamity, which took 
this great genius from the outward world, and forced him to con- 
centrate just as he had attained command of his forces ? 

Friendly affection, indeed, was not wanting to the great 
master ; but who could be his equal friend ? It was impossible ; 
he might have found a love, but could not a friend in the same 
century with himself. But men were earnest to serve and wo- 
men to venerate him. Schindler, as well as others, devoted 
many of the best years of life to him. A beautiful trait of affec- 
tion is mentioned of the Countess Marie Erdody, a friend dear to 
Beethoven, who, in the park which surrounds her Hungarian pal- 
ace, erected a temple which she dedicated to him. 

Beethoven had two brothers. The one, Johann, seems to have 
been rather stupid and selfish than actively bad. The character 
of his mind is best shown by his saying to the great master, 
" you will never succeed as well as I have." We have all, prob- 
bably, in memory instances where the reproving angel of the 
family, the one whose thinking mind, grace, and purity, may pos- 
sibly atone for the worthless lives of all the rest, is spoken of as 
.he unsuccessful member, because he has not laid up treasures 
there where moth or rust do corrupt, and ever as we hear such re- 
marks, we are tempted to answer by asking, " what is the news 
from Sodom and Gomorrah ?" But the farce of Beethoven's not 



272 PAPERS ON LITERATURE AND ART. 

succeeding is somewhat broad, even in a world where many such 
sayings echo through the streets. At another time Johann, hav- 
ing become proprietor of a little estate, sent into Beethoven's 
lodging a hew year card on which was written Johann van Bee- 
thoven Gutsbesitzer, (possessor of an estate,) to which the Master 
returned one inscribed Ludwig van Beethoven Hirnbesitzer, 
(possessor of a brain.) This Gutsbesitzer refused his great 
brother a trifling aid in his last illness, applied for by the friends 
who had constituted themselves his attendants, and showed to- 
wards him systematic selfishness and vulgarity of feeling. Carl, 
the other brother, under the mask of affectionate attention, plun- 
dered him both of his gains and the splendid presents often made 
him, and kept away by misrepresentations and falsehood all those 
who would have sincerely served him. This was the easier, in 
that the usual unfortunate effect of deafness of producing distrust 
was increased in Beethoven's case by signal instances of treach- 
ery, shown towards him in the first years of incapacity to man- 
age his affairs as he had done before his malady. This sad dis- 
trust poisoned the rest of his life ; but it was his only unworthi- 
ness ; let us not dwell upon it. This brother, Carl, was Beetho- 
ven's evil genius, and his malignant influence did not cease with 
his life. He bequeathed to his brother the care of an only son, 
and Beethoven assumed the guardianship with that high feeling 
of the duties it involved, to be expected from one of his severe and 
pure temper. The first step he was obliged to take was to with- 
draw the boy from the society and care of his mother, an un- 
worthy woman, under whose influence no good could be hoped 
from anything done for him. The law-suit, instituted for this 
purpose, which lasted several years, was very injurious to Bee- 
thoven's health, and effectually impedeo. the operations of his po- 
etic power. For he was one " who so abhorred vice and mean- 
ness that he could not bear to hear them spoken of, much less suf- 
fer them near him ; yet now was obliged to think of them, nay, 



LIVES OF THE GREAT COMPOSERS. 273 

carefully to collect evidence in proof of their existence, and that 
in the person of a near connexion." This quite poisoned the at- 
mosphere of his ideal world, and destroyed for the time all crea- 
tive glow. On account of the van prefixed to his name, the cause 
was, at first, brought before the tribunal of nobility. They called 
on Beethoven to show them his credentials of noble birth. 
" Here !" he replied, putting his hand to head and heart. But 
as these nobles mostly derived their titles from the head and heart 
of some remote ancestor, they would not recognize this new peer- 
age, and Beethoven, with indignant surprise, found himself re- 
ferred to the tribunal of the common burghers. 

The lawsuit was spun out by the obstinate resistance of his 
sister-in-law for several years, and when Beethoven at last ob- 
tained possession of the child, the seeds of vice were already 
sown in his breast. An inferior man would have been more 
likely to eradicate them than Beethoven, because a kindred con- 
sciousness might have made him patient. But the stern Roman 
spirit of Beethoven could not demand less than virtue, less than 
excellence, from the object of his care. For the youth's sake he 
made innumerable sacrifices, toiled for him as he would not for 
himself, was lavish of all that could conduce to his true good, 
but imperiously demanded from him truth, honour, purity and as- 
piration. No tragedy is deeper than the perusal of his letters to 
the young man, so brief and so significant, so stern and so tender. 
The joy and love at every sign of goodness, the profound indig- 
nation at failure and falsehood, the power of forgiving but not of 
excusing, the sentiment of the true value of life, so rocky calm, 
that with all its height it never seems exalted, make these letters 
a biblical chapter in the protest of modern days against the back- 
slidings of the multitude. The lover of man, the despiser of 
men, he who writes, " Recommend to your children virtue ; that 
alone can make happy, not gold ; I speak from experience," is 
fully painted in these letters. 



274 PAPERS ON LITERATURE AND ART. 

In a lately published novel, " Night and Morning," Bulwer has 
well depicted the way in which a strong character overshoots its 
mark in the care of a weak one. The belief of Philip that his 
weaker brother will abide by a conviction or a promise, with the 
same steadfastness that he himself could ; the unfavourable ac- 
tion of his disinterested sacrifices on the character of his charge, 
and the impossibility that the soft, selfish child should sympathize 
with the conflicts or decisions of the strong and noble mind ; the 
undue rapidity with which Philip draws inferences, false to the 
subject because too large for it ; all this tragedy of common life 
is represented with Rembrandt power of shadow in the history of 
Beethoven and his nephew. The ingratitude of the youth is Un- 
surpassed, and the nature it wronged was one of the deepest ca- 
pacity for suffering from the discovery of such baseness. Many 
years toiled on the sad drama ; its catastrophe was the death of 
this great master, caused by the child of his love neglecting to 
call a physician, because he wanted to play at billiards. 

His love was unworthy; his adopted child unworthy; his 
brothers unworthy. Yet though his misfortunes in these respects 
seem singular, they sprang from no chance. Here, as elsewhere, 
" mind and destiny are two names for one idea." His colossal 
step terrified those around him ; they wished him away from the 
earth, lest he should trample down their mud-hovels ; they bound 
him in confiding sleep, or, Judas-like, betrayed with a base kiss 
of fealty. His genius excited no respect in narrow minds ; his 
entire want of discretion in the economy of life left him, they 
thought, their lawful prey. Yet across the dark picture shines a 
gleam of almost unparalleled lustre, for " she, Art, she held 
him up." 

I will not give various instances of failure in promises from 
the rich and noble, piracy from publishers, nor even some details 
of his domestic plagues, in which he displays a breadth of hu- 
mour, and stately savage sarcasm, refreshing in their place. But 



LIVES OF THE GREAT COMPOSERS. 275 

I will not give any of these, nor any of his letters, because the 
limits forbid to give them all, and they require light from one an- 
other. In such an account as the present, a mere sketch is all 
that can be attempted. 

A few passages will speak for themselves. Goethe neglected 
to lend his aid to the artist for whom he had expressed such ad- 
miration, at a time when he might have done so without any in- 
convenience. Perhaps Beethoven's letter (quoted No. V. of the 
Dial, Essay on Goethe) may furnish an explanation of this. Che- 
rubini omitted to answer Beethoven's affectionate and magnani- 
mous letter, though he complied with the request it contained. 
But " the good Bettina" was faithful to her professions, and of es- 
sential use to Beethoven, by interesting her family in the conduct 
of his affairs. 

He could not, for any purpose, accommodate himself to courts, 
or recognize their claims to homage. Two or three orders given 
him for works, which might have secured him the regard of the 
imperial family, he could not obey. Whenever he attempted to 
compose them, he found that the degree of restriction put upon 
him by the Emperor's taste hampered him too much. The one 
he did compose for such a purpose, the " Glorreiche Augenblick," 
Schindler speaks of as one of the least excellent of his works. 

He could not bear to give lessons to the Archduke Rudolph, 
both because he detested giving regular lessons at all, and be- 
cause he could not accommodate himself to the ceremonies of a 
court. Indeed it is evident enough from a letter of the Arch- 
duke's, quoted by Schindler as showing most condescending re- 
gard, how unfit it was for the lion-king to dance in gilded chains 
amid these mummeries. 

Individuals in that princely class he admired, and could be just 
to, for his democracy was very unlike that fierce vulgar radical- 
ism which assumes that the rich and great must be bad. , His was 
only vindication of the rights of man ; he could see merit if 



276 PAPERS ON LITERATURE AND ART. 

seated on a throne, as clearly as if at a cobbler's stall. The 
Archduke Karl, to whom Korner dedicated his heroic muse, was 
the object of his admiration also. The Empress of Russia, too, 
he admired. 

" Whoever wished to learn of him was obliged to follow his 
steps everywhere, for to teach, or say anything, at an appointed 
time was to him impossible. Also he would stop immediately, if 
he found his companion not sufficiently versed in the matter to 
keep step with him." He could not harangue; he must always 
be drawn out. 

Amid all the miseries of his housekeeping or other disturb, 
ances, (and here, did space permit, I should like to quote his hu- 
mourous notice of his " four bad days," when he was almost 
starved,) he had recourse to his art. " He would be fretted a lit- 
tle while ; then snatch up the score and write ' noten im nothen,' 
as he was wont to call them, and forget the plague." 

When quite out of health and spirits he restored himself by 
the composition of a grand mass. This " great, solemn mass," 
as he calls it in his letter to Cherubini, was offered to the different 
courts of Europe for fifty ducats. The Prussian ambassador in 
a diplomatic letter attempted to get it for an order and ribbon. 
Beethoven merely wrote in reply, " fifty ducats." He indeed 
was as disdainful of gold chains and orders as Bach was indiffer- 
ent to them. 

Although thus haughty, so much so that he would never re- 
ceive a visit from Rossini, because, though he admitted that the 
Italian had genius, he thought he had not cultivated it with 
that devout severity proper to the artist, and was, consequently, 
corrupting the public taste, he was not only generous in his joy 
at any exhibition of the true spirit from others, but tenderly 
grateful for intelligent sympathy with himself, as is shown in the 
following beautiful narratives. 



LIVES OF THE GREAT COMPOSERS. 277 

" Countess S. brought him on her return from , German w rds by 

Herr Scholz, written for his first mass. He opened the paper as we were 
Beated together at the table. When he came to the ' Qui tollis,' tears 
streamed from hi 3 eyes, and he was obliged to stop, so deeply was he 
moved by the inexpressibly beautiful words. He cried, 'Ja ! so habe ich 
gefuhlt, als ich dieses schrieb,' ' yes, this was what I felt when I wrote it.' 
It was the first and last time I ever saw him in tears." 

They were such tears as might have been shed on the jubilee 
of what he loved so much, Schiller's Ode to Joy. 

" Be welcome, millions, 
This embrace for the whole world." 

Happy the man, who gave the bliss to Beethoven of feeling his 
thought not only recognised, but understood. Years of undis- 
cerning censure, and scarcely less undiscerning homage, are ob- 
literated by the one true vibration from the heart of a fellow-man. 
Then the genius is at home on earth, when another soul knows 
not only what he writes, but what he felt when he wrote it. 
" The music is not the lyre nor the hand which plays upon it, 
but when the two meet, that arises which is neither, but gives 
each its place." 

A pleasure almost as deep was given him on this occasion. 
Rossini had conquered the German world also ; the public had 
almost forgotten Beethoven. A band of friends, in whose hearts 
the care for his glory and for the high, severe culture of art was 
still living, wrote him a noble letter, in which they entreated him 
to give to the public one of his late works, and, by such a musi- 
cal festival, eclipse at once these superficial entertainments. The 
spirit of this letter is thoughtful, tender, and shows so clearly the 
German feeling as to the worship of the beautiful, that it would 
have been well to translate it, but that it is too long. It should 
be a remembrancer of pride and happiness to those who signed 
their names to it. Schindler kne T v when it was to be sent, and 
after Beethoven had time to read it, he went to him. 
24 



278 PAPERS ON LITERATURE AND ART. 

*' I found Beethoven with the memorial in his hand. With an air of 
unwonted serenity, he reached it to me, placing himself at the window tc 
gaze at the clouds drawing past. His inly deep emotion could not escape 
my eye. After I had read the paper I laid it aside, and waited in silence, 
for him to begin the conversation. After a long pause, during which his 
looks constantly followed the clouds, he turned round, and said, in an ele- 
vated tone that betrayed his deep emotion, ' Es ist doch recht schon. Es 
freut mich.' ' It is indeed right fair. It rejoices me.' I assented by a 
motion of the head. He then said, ' Let us go into the free air.' When 
we were out he spoke only in monosyllables, but the spark of desire to 
comply # with their requests glimmered visibly in him." 

This musical festival at last took place after many difficulties, 
caused by Beethoven's obstinacy in arranging all the circum- 
stances in his own way. He could never be brought to make 
allowance anywhere for ignorance or incapacity. So it must be 
or no how! He could never be induced to alter his music on 
account of the incapacity of the performers, (the best, too, on that 
occasion, anywhere to be had,) for going through certain parts. 
So that they were at last obliged to alter parts in their own fashion, 
which was always a great injury to the final effect of his works. 
They were at this time unwearied in their efforts to please him, 
though Sontag playfully told him he was " a very tyrant to the 
singing organs." 

This festival afforded him a complete triumph. The audience 
applauded and applauded, till, at one time, when the acclama 
tions rose to their height, Sontag perceiving that Beethoven did 
not hear, as his face was turned from the house, called his atten- 
tion. The audience then, as for the first time realizing the extent 
of his misfortune, melted into tears, then all united in a still 
more rapturous expression of homage. For once at least the 
man excited the tenderness, the artist the enthusiasm he deserved. 

His country again forgot one who never could nor would call 
attention to himself; she forgot in the day him for whom she in 
the age cherishes an immortal reverence, and the London Phil- 



LIVES OF THE GREAT COMPOSERS. 279 

harmonic Society had the honour of ministering to the necessities 
of his last illness. The generous eagerness with which they 
sent all that his friendly attendants asked, and offered more when- 
ever called for, was most grateful to Beethoven's heart, which 
had in those last days been frozen by such ingratitude. It roused 
nis sinking life to one last leap of flame ; his latest days were 
passed in revolving a great work which he wished to compose for 
the society, and which those about him thought would, if fin- 
ished, have surpassed all he had done before. 

No doubt, if his situation had been known in Germany, his 
country would have claimed a similar feeling from him. For she 
was not to him a step-dame ; and, though in his last days taken 
up with newer wonders, would not, had his name been spoken, 
have failed to listen and to answer. 

Yet a few more interesting passages. He rose before daybreak 
both in winter and summer, and worked till two or three o'clock, 
rarely after. He would never correct, to him the hardest task, 
as, like all great geniuses, he was indefatigable in the use of the 
file, in the evening. Often in the midst of his work he would 
run out into the free air for half an hour or more, and return 
laden with new thoughts. When he felt this impulse he paid no 
regard to the weather. 

Plato and Shakspeare were his favourite authors ; especially 
he was fond of reading Plato's Republic. He read the Greek 
and Roman classics much, but in translations, for his education, 
out of his art, was limited. He also went almost daily to coffee- 
houses, where he read the newspapers, going in and out by the back 
door. If he found he excited observation, he changed his haunt, 

** He tore without ceremony a composition submitted to him by the 
great Hummel, which he thought bad. Moscheles, dreading a similar 
fate for one of his which was to pass under his criticism, wrote at the 
oottom of the last page, ' Finis. With the help of God.' Beethoven 
wrote beneath, ' Man, help thyself.' " 



280 PAPERS ON LITERATURE AND ART. 

Obviously a new edition of Hercules and the Wagoner. 

" He was the most open of men, and told unhesitatingly all he thought, 
unless the subject were art and artists. On these subjects he was often in- 
accessible, and put off the inquirer with wit or satire." " On two subjects 
he would never talk, thorough bass and religion. He said they were both 
things complete within themselves, (in sich abgeschlossene dinge,) about 
which men should dispute no farther." 

" As to the productions of his genius, let not a man or a nation, if yet 
in an immature stage, seek to know them. They require a certain degree 
of ripeness in the inner man to be understood. 

" From the depth of the mind arisen, she, (Poesie,) is only to the depth 
of the mind either useful or intelligible." 

I cannot conclude more forcibly than by quoting Beethoven's 
favourite maxim. It expresses what his life was, and what 
the life must be of those who would become worthy to do him 
honour. 

" The barriers are not yet erected which can say to aspiring 
talent and industry, thus far and no farther." 

Beethoven is the only one of these five artists whose life can 
be called unfortunate. They all found early the means to unfold 
their powers, and a theatre on which to display them. But Bee- 
thoven was, through a great part of his public career, deprived 
of the satisfaction of guiding or enjoying the representation of his 
thoughts. He was like a painter who could never see his pic- 
tures after they are finished. Probably, if he could himself have 
directed the orchestra, he would have been more pliable in making 
corrections with an eye to effect. Goethe says that no one can 
write a successful drama without familiarity with the stage, so 
as to know what can be expressed, what must be merely indi- 
cated. But in Beethoven's situation, there was not this reaction, 
so that he clung more perseveringly to the details of his work 
lhan great geniuses do, who live in more immediate contact with 
the outward world. Such an one will, indeed, always answer 
like Mozart to an ignorant criticism, " There are just as many 



LIVES OF THE GREAT COMPOSERS. 281 

notes as there should be." But a habit of intercourse with the 
minds of men gives an instinctive tact, as to meeting them, and 
Michel Angelo, about to build St. Peter's, takes into considera- 
tion, not only his own idea of a cathedral, but means, time, space, 
and prospects. 

But the misfortune, which fettered the outward eneigies, deep- 
ened the thought of Beethoven. He travelled inward, downward, 
till downward was shown to be the same as upward, for the centre 
was passed. 

Like all princes, he made many ingrates, and his powerful 
lion nature, was that most capable of suffering from the amaze- 
ment of witnessing baseness. But the love, the pride, the faith, 
which survive such pangs are those which make our stair to hea- 
ven. Beethoven was not only a poet, but a victorious poet, for 
having drunk to its dregs the cup of bitterness, the fount of 
inward nobleness remained undefiled. Unbeloved, he could 
love ; deceived in other men, he yet knew himself too well to 
despise human nacure ; dying from ingratitude, he could still be 
grateful. 

Schindler thinks his genius would have been far more produc- 
tive, if he had had a tolerably happy home, if instead of the cold 
discomfort that surrounded him, he had been blessed, like Mozart, 
with a gentle wife, who would have made him a sanctuary in her 
unwearied love. It is, indeed, inexpressibly affecting to find the 
•' vehement nature," even in his thirty-first year, writing thus ; 
'At my age one sighs for an equality, a harmony of outward 
existence," and to know that he never attained it. But the lofty 
ideal of the happiness which his life could not attain, shone forth 
not the less powerfully from his genius. The love of his choice 
was not " firm as the fortress of heaven," but his heart remained 
the ga'.e to that fortress. During all his latter years, he never 
complained, nor did Schindler ever hear him advert to past sor- 
rows, or the lost objects of affection. Perhaps we are oest con. 
24* 



282 PAPERS ON LITERATURE AND ART. 

tented that earth should not have offered him a home ; where is 
the woman who would have corresponded with what we wish 
from his love ? Where is the lot in which he could have re- 
posed with all that grandeur of aspect in which he now appears 
to us ? Where Jupiter, the lustrous, lordeth, there may be a 
home for thee, Beethoven. 

We will not shrink from the dark clouds which became to his 
overflowing light cinctures of pearl and opal ; we will not, even 
by a wish, seek to amend the destiny through which a divine 
thought glows so clearly. Were there no CEdipuses there would 
be no Antigones. 

Under no other circumstances could Beethoven have ministered 
to his fellows in the way he himself indicates. 

" The unhappy man, let him be comforted by rinding one of 
his race who in defiance of all hinderances of nature, has done 
all possible to him to be received in the rank of worthy artists 
and men." 

In three respects these artists, all true artists, resemble one 
another. Clear decision. The intuitive faculty speaks clear in 
those devoted to the worship of Beauty. They are not subject 
to mental conflict, they ask not counsel of experience. They 
take what they want as simply as the bird goes in search of its 
proper food, so soon as its wings are grown. 

Like nature they love to work for its own sake. The philoso- 
pher is ever seeking the thought through the symbol, but the ar- 
tist is happy at the implication of the thought in his work. He 
does not reason about " religion or thorough bass." His answer 
is Haydn's, '' I thought it best so." From each achievement 
grows up a still higher ideal, and when his work is finished, it ia 
nothing to the artist who has made of it the step by which he 
ascended, but while he was engaged in it, it was all to him, and 
filled his soul with a parental joy. 

They do not criticise, but affirm. They have no need to deny 



LIVES OF THE GREAT COMPOSERS. 283 

aught, much less one another. All excellence to them was ge- 
nial ; imperfection only left room for new creative power to dis- 
play itself. An everlasting yes breathes from the life, from the 
work of the artist. Nature echoes it, and leaves to society the 
work of saying no, if it will. But it will not, except for the mo- 
ment. It weans itself for the moment, and turns pettishly away 
from genius, but soon stumbling, groping, and lonely, cries aloud 
tor its nurse. The age cries now, and what an answer is pro- 
phesied by such harbinger stars as these at which we have been 
gazing. We will engrave their names on the breastplate, and 
wear them as a talisman of hope. 



A RECORD OF IMPRESSIONS 

PRODUCED BY THE EXHIBITION OF MR. ALLSTON's PICTURES IN THE 
SUMMER OF 1839. 



This is a record of impressions. It does not aspire to the dig- 
nity of criticism. The writer is conscious of an eye and taste, 
not sufficiently exercised by study of the best works of art, 
to take the measure of one who has a claim to be surveyed 
from the same platform. But, surprised at finding that an exhi- 
bition, intended to promote thought and form the tastes of our 
public, has called forth no expression* of what it was to so many, 
who almost daily visited it ; and believing that comparison and 
discussion of the impressions of individuals is the best means to 
ascertain the sum of the whole, and raise the standard of taste, I 
venture to offer what, if not true in itself, is at least true to the 
mind of one observer, and may lead others to reveal more valua- 
ble experiences. 

Whether the arts can ever be at home among us ; whether the 
desire now manifested to cultivate them be not merely one of our 
modes of imitating older nations ; or whether it springs from a 
need of balancing the bustle and care of daily life by the unfold- 
ing of our calmer and higher nature, it is at present difficult to 
decide. If the latter, it is not by unthinking repetition of the 
technics of foreign connoisseurs, or by a servile reliance on the 
judgment of those, who assume to have been formed by a few 

• Since the above was written, we see an article on the Exhibition in the 
North American Review for April, 1840. 

(284) 



WASHINGTON ALLSTON. 285 

hasty visits to the galleries of Europe, that we shall effect an ob- 
ject so desirable, but by a faithful recognition of the feelings 
naturally excited by works of art, not indeed flippant, as if our 
raw, uncultivated nature was at once competent to appreciate 
those finer manifestations of nature, which slow growths of ages 
and peculiar aspects of society have occasionally brought out, to 
testify to us what we may and should be. We know it is not so ; 
we know that if such works are to be assimilated at all by those 
who are not under the influences that produced them, it must be 
by gradually educating us to their own level. But it is not blind 
faith that will educate us, that will open the depths and clear the 
eye of the mind, but an examination which cannot be too close, 
if made in the spirit of reverence and love. 

It was as an essay in this kind that the following pages were 
written. They are pages of a journal, and their form has not been 
altered, lest any attempt at a more fair and full statement should 
destroy that freshness and truth of feeling, which is the chief 
merit of such. 

July, 1839. 

On the closing of the Allston exhibition, where I have spent so 
many hours, I find myself less a gainer than I had expected, and 
feel that it is time to look into the matter a little, with such a 
torch or penny rush candle as I can command. 

I have seen most of these pictures often before ; the Beatrice 
and Valentine when only sixteen. The effect they produced upon 
me was so great, that I suppose it was not possible for me to avoid 
expecting too large a benefit from the artist. 

The calm and meditative cast of these pictures, the ideal 
beauty that shone through rather than in them, and the harmony 
of colouring were as unlike anything else I saw, as the Vicar of 
Wakefield to Cooper's novels. I seemed to recognise in painting 
that self-possessed elegance, that transparent depth, which I most 
admire in literature ; I thought with delight that such a man as 



286 PAPERS ON LITERATURE AND ART. 

this had been able to grow up in our bustling, reasonable com- 
munity, that he had kept his foot upon the ground, yet never lost 
sight of the rose-clouds of beauty floating above him. I saw, too, 
that he had not been troubled, but possessed his own soul with 
the blandest patience ; and I hoped, I scarce knew what ; proba- 
bly the mot d'enigme for which we are all looking. How the 
poetical mind can live and work in peace and good faith ! how 
it may unfold to its due perfection in an unpoetical society ! 

From time to time I have seen other of these pictures, and they 
have always been to me sweet silvery music, rising by its clear 
tone to be heard above the din of life ; long forest glades glim- 
mering with golden light, longingly eyed from the window of 
some crowded drawing room. 

But now, seeing so many of them together, 1 can no longer be 
content merely to feel, but must judge these works. I must try 
to find the centre, to measure the circumference ; and I fare 
somewhat as I have done, when I have seen in periodicals de- 
tached thoughts by some writer, which seemed so full of meaning 
and suggestion, that I would treasure them up in my memory, and 
think about them, till I had made a picture of the author's mind, 
which his works when I found them collected would not justify. 
Yet the great writer would go beyond my hope and abash my 
fancy ; should not the great painter do the same ? 

Yet, probably, I am too little aware of the difficulties the 
artist encounters, before he can produce anything excellent, fully 
to appreciate the greatness he has shown. Here, as elsewhere, 
I suppose the first question should be, What ought we to expect 
under the circumstances ? 

There is no poetical ground-work ready for the artist in our 
country and time. Good deeds appeal to the understanding. 
Our religion is that of the understanding. We have no old 
established faith, no hereditary romance, no such stuff as Catholi- 
ci«m, Chivalry afforded. What is most dignified in the Puritanio 



WASHINGTON ALLSTON. 287 

modes of thought is not favourable to beauty. The habits of an 
industrial community are not propitious to delicacy of sentiment. 
He, who would paint human nature, must content himself with 
selecting fine situations here and there ; and he must address 
himself, not to a public which is not educated to prize him, but 
to the small circle within the circle of men of taste. 

If, like Wilkie or Newton, he paints direct from nature, only 
selecting and condensing, or choosing lights and draperies, I sup- 
pose he is as well situated now as he could ever have been ; but 
if, like Mr. Allston, he aims at the Ideal, it is by no means the 
same. He is in danger of being sentimental and picturesque, 
rather than spiritual and noble. Mr. Allston has not fallen 
into these faults ; and if we can complain, it is never of blemish 
or falsity, but of inadequacy. Always he has a high purpose in 
what he does, never swerves from his aim, but sometimes fails to 
reach it. 

The Bible, familiar to the artist's youth, has naturally fur- 
nished subjects for his most earnest efforts. I will speak of four 
pictures on biblical subjects, which were in this exhibition. 

Restoring the dead man by the touch of the Prophet's Bones. 
I should say there was a want of artist's judgment in the very 
choice of the subject. 

In all the miracles where Christ and the Apostles act a part, 
and which have been favourite subjects with the great painters, 
poetical beauty is at once given to the scene by the moral dignity, 
the sublime exertion of faith on divine power in the person of 
the main actor. He is the natural centre of the picture, and the 
emotions of all present grade from and cluster round him. So 
in a martyrdom, however revolting or oppressive the circum- 
stances, there is room in the person of the sufferer for a similar 
expression, a central light which shall illuminate and dignify all 
round it. 

But a miracle effected by means of a relique, or dry bones, 



288 PAPERS ON LITERATURE AND ART. 

has the disagreeable effect of mummery. In this picture the 
foreground is occupied by the body of the patient in that state of 
deadly rigidity and pallor so offensive to the sensual eye. The 
mind must reason the eye out of an instinctive aversion, and 
force it to its work, — always an undesirable circumstance. 

In such a picture as that of the Massacre of the Innocents, 
painful as the subject is, the beauty of forms in childhood, and 
the sentiment of maternal love, so beautiful even in anguish, 
charm so much as to counterpoise the painful emotions. But 
here, not only is the main figure offensive to the sensual eye, thus 
violating one principal condition of art ; it is incapable of any 
expression at such a time beyond that of physical anguish during 
the struggle of life suddenly found to re-demand its dominion. 
Neither can the assistants exhibit any emotions higher than those 
of surprise, terror, or, as in the case of the wife, an overwhelm- 
ing anxiety of suspense. 

The grouping and colouring of this picture are very good, 
and the individual figures managed with grace and discrimina- 
tion, though without much force. 

The subjects of the other three pictures are among the finest 
possible, grand no less than beautiful, and of the highest poetical 
interest. They present no impediment to the manifestation of 
genius. Let us look first at Jeremiah in prison dictating to 
Baruch. 

The strength and dignity of the Jew physique, and the appro- 
priateness of the dress, allowed fair play to the painter's desire 
to portray inspiration manifesting itself by a suitable organ. As 
far as the accessories and grouping of the figures nothing can be 
better. The form of the prophet is brought out in such noble 
relief, is in such fine contrast to the pale and feminine sweet- 
ness of the scribe at his feet, that for a time you are satisfied. 
But by and by you begin to doubt, whether this picture is not 
rather imposing than majestic. The dignity of the prophet's ap- 



WASHINGTON ALLSTON. 289 

pearance seems to lie rather in the fine lines of the form and 
drapery, than in the expression of the face. It was well observed 
by one who looked on him, that, if the eyes were cast down, he 
would become an ordinary man. This is true, and the expres- 
sion of the bard must not depend on a look or gesture, but beam 
with mild electricity from every feature. Allston's Jeremiah is 
not the mournfully indignant bard, but the robust and stately 
Jew, angry that men will not mark his word and go his way. 
But Baruch is admirable ! His overwhelmed yet willing submis- 
sion, the docile faith which turns him pale, and trembles almost 
tearful in his eye, are given with infinite force and beauty. The 
coup d'cBil of this picture is excellent, and it has great merit, but 
not the highest. 

Miriam. There is hardly a subject which, for the combina- 
tion of the sublime with the beautiful could present greater ad- 
vantages than this. Yet this picture also, with all its great merits, 
fails to satisfy our highest requisitions. 

I could wish the picture had been larger, and that the angry 
clouds and swelling sea did not need to be looked for as they do. 
For the whole attention remains so long fixed on the figure of 
Miriam, that you cannot for some time realize who she is. You 
merely see this bounding figure, and the accessories are so kept 
under, that it is difficult to have the situation full in your mind, 
and feel that you see not merely a Jewish girl dancing, but the re- 
presentative of Jewry rescued and triumphant ! What a figure this 
might be ! The character of Jewish beauty is so noble and pro- 
found ! This maiden had been nurtured in a fair and highly 
oivilized country, in the midst of wrong and scorn indeed, but 
beneath the shadow of sublime institutions. In a state of ab- 
ject bondage, in a catacomb as to this life, she had embalmed 
her soul in the memory of those days, when God walked with 
her fathers, and did for their sakes such mighty works. Amid 
all the pains and penances of slavery, the memory of Joseph, the 
2j 



290 PAPERS ON LITERATURE AND ART. 

presence! of Moses, exalt her soul to the highest pitch of national 
pride. The chords had of late been strung to their greatest ten- 
sion, by the series of prodigies wrought in behalf of the nation of 
which her family is now the head. Of these the last and grand- 
est had just taken place before her eyes. 

Imagine the stately and solemn beauty with which such nur- 
ture and such a position might invest the Jewish Miriam. Ima- 

§ 
gine her at the moment when her soul would burst at last the 

shackles in which it had learned to move freely and proudly, 
when her lips were unsealed, and she was permitted before her 
brother, deputy of the Most High, and chief of their assembleu 
nation, to sing the song of deliverance. Realize this situation, 
and oh, how far will this beautiful picture fall short of your de- 
mands ! 

The most unimaginative observers complain of a want of depth 
in the eye of Miriam. For myself, I make the same complaint, 
as much as I admire the whole figure. How truly is she up- 
borne, what swelling jOy and pride in every line _of her form ! 
And the face, though inadequate, is not false to the ideal. Its 
beauty is mournful, and only wants the heroic depth, the cavern- 
ous flame of eye, which should belong to such a face in such a 
place. 

The Witch of Endor is still more unsatisfactory. What a tra- 
gedy was that of the stately Saul, ruined by his perversity of will, 
despairing, half mad, refusing to give up the sceptre which he 
feels must in a short time be wrenched from his hands, degrading 
himself to the use of means he himself had forbid as unlawful 
and devilish, seeking the friend and teacher of his youth by means 
he would most of all men disapprove. The mournful significance 
of the crisis, the stately aspect of Saul as celebrated in the his- 
tory, and the supernatural events which had filled his days, gave 
authority for investing him with that sort of beauty and majesty / 
proper to archangels ruined. What have we here 1 I don't 



WASHINGTON ALLSTON. 291 

know what is generally thought about the introduction of a ghost 
on canvass, but it is to me as ludicrous as the introduction on the 
stage of the ghost in Hamlet (in his night-gown) as the old play 
book direction was. The effect of such a representation seems 
to me unattainable in a picture. There cannot be due distance 
and shadowy softness. 

Then what does the picture mean to say ? In the chronicle, 
the witch, surprised and affrighted at the apparition, reproaches the 
king, " Why hast thou deceived me ? for thou art Saul." 

But here the witch (a really fine figure, fierce and prononcS as 
that of a Noma should be) seems threatening the king, who is in 
an attitude of theatrical as well as degrading dismay. To me 
this picture has no distinct expression, and is wholly unsatisfac- 
tory, maugre all its excellencies of detail. 

In fine, the more I have looked at these pictures, the more I 
have been satisfied that the grand historical style did not afford 
the scope most proper to Mr. Allston's genius. The Prophets 
and Sibyls are for the Michael Angelos. The Beautiful is Mr. 
Allston's dominion. There he rules as a Genius, but in attempts 
such as I have been considering, can only show his appreciation 
of the stern and sublime thoughts he wants force to reproduce. 

But on his own ground we can meet the painter with almost 
our first delight. 

A certain bland delicacy enfolds all these creations as an at- 
mosphere. Here is no effort, they have floated across the 
painter's heaven on the golden clouds of phantasy. 

These pictures (I speak here only of figures, of the landscapes 
a few words anon) are almost all in repose. The most beautiful 
are Beatrice, The Lady reading a Valentine, The Evening 
Hymn, Rosalie, The Italian Shepherd Boy, Edwin, Lorenzo and 
Jessica. The excellence of these pictures is subjective and even 
feminine. They tell us the painter's ideal of character. A 
graceful repose, with a fitness for moderate action. A capacity 



292 PAPERS ON LITERATURE AND ART. 

of emotion, with a habit of reverie. Not one of these beings is. 
in a state of epanchement, not one is, or perhaps could be, thrown 
off its equipoise. They are, even the softest, characterized by 
entire though unconscious self-possession. 

While looking at them would be always coming up in my 
mind the line, 

" The genius loci, feminine and fair 

Grace, grace always. 

Mr. Allston seems to have an exquisite sensibility to colour, and 
a great love for drapery. The last sometimes leads him to 
direct our attention too much to it, and sometimes the accessories 
are made too prominent ; we look too much at shawls, curtains, 
rings, feathers, and carcanets. 

I will specify two of these pictures, which seem to me to indi- 
cate Mr. Allston's excellences as well as any. 

The Italian Shepherd boy is seated in a wood. The form is 
almost nude, and the green glimmer of the wood gives the flesh 
the polished whiteness of marble. He is very beautiful, this 
boy ; and the beauty, as Mr. Allston loves it best, has not yet 
unfolded all its leaves. The heart of the flower is still a per- 
fumed secret. He sits as if he could sit there forever, gracefully 
lost in reverie, steeped, if we may judge from his mellow brown 
eye, in the present loveliness of nature, in the dimly anticipated 
ecstasies of love. 

Every part of nature has its peculiar influence. On the hill- 
top one is roused, in the valley soothed, beside the waterfall ab- 
sorbed. And in the wood, who has not, like this boy, walked as 
far as the excitement of exercise would carry him, and then, 
with " blood listening in his frame." and heart brightly awake, 
seated himself on such a bank. At first he notices everything, 
the clouds doubly soft, the sky deeper blue, as seen shimmering 
through the leaves, the fyttes of golden light seen through the 



WASHINGTON ALLSTON. 293 

long glades, the skimming of a butterfly ready to light on some 
3tarry wood-flower, the nimble squirrel peeping archly at him, 
the flutter and wild notes of the birds, the whispers and sighs of 
the trees, — gradually he ceases to mark any of these things, and 
becomes lapt in the ]31ysian harmony they combine to form. 
Who has ever felt this mood understands why the observant 
Greek placed his departed great ones in groves. While, dui'ing 
this trance, he hears the harmonies of Nature, he seems to become 
her and she him ; it is truly the mother in the child, and the 
Hamadryads look out with eyes of tender twilight approbation 
from their beloved and loving trees. Such an hour lives for U3 
again in this picture. 

Mr. Allston has been very fortunate in catching the shimmer 
and glimmer of the woods, and tempering his greens and browns 
to their peculiar light. 

Beatrice. This is spoken of as Dante's Beatrice, but I should 
think can scarcely have been suggested by the Divine Comedy. 
The painter merely having in mind how the great Dante loved a 
certain lady called Beatrice, embodied here his own ideal of a 
poet's love. 

The Beatrice of Dante was, no doubt, as pure, as gentle, as 
high-bred, but also possessed of much higher attributes than this 
fair being. 

How fair, indeed, and not unmeet for a poet's love. But 
there lies in her no germ of the celestial destiny of Dante's 
saint. What she is, what she can be, it needs no Dante to dis- 
cover. 

She is not a lustrous, bewitching beauty, neither is she a high 
and poetic one. She is not a concentrated perfume, nor a flower, 
nor a star ; yet somewhat has she of every creature's best. She 
has the golden mean, without any touch of the mediocre. She 
can venerate the higher and compassionate the lower, and do to 
all honour due with most grateful courtesy and nice tact. She is 
25* 



294 PAPERS ON LITERATURE AND ARi. 

velvet-soft, her mild and modest eyes have tempered all things 
round her, till no rude sound invades her sphere; yet, if need 
were, she could resist with as graceful composure as she can fa- 
vour or bestow. 

No vehement emotion shall heave that bosom, and the tears 
shall fall on those cheeks more like dew than rain. Yet are her 
feelings delicate, profound, her love constant and tender, her re. 
sentment calm but firm. 

Fair as a maid, fairer as a wife, fairest as a lady mother and 
ruler of a household, she were better suited to a prince than a 
poet. Even if no prince could be found worthy of her, I would 
not wed her to a poet, if he lived in a cottage. For her best 
graces demand a splendid setting to give them their due lustre, 
and she should rather enhance than cause her environment. 

There are three pictures in the comic kind, which are good, 
[t is genteel comedy, not rich, easily taken in and left, but hav- 
ing the lights and shades well marked. They show a gentle- 
manlike playfulness. In Catharine and Petruchio. the Gremio is 
particularly good, and the tear-distained Catharine, whose head 
shoulder, knee, and foot seem to unite to spell the word Pout, 
is next best. 

The Sisters — a picture quite unlike those I have named — does 
not please me much, though I should suppose the execution re- 
markably good. It is not in repose nor in harmony, nor is it rich 
in suggestion, like the others. It aims to speak, but says little, 
and is not beautiful enough to fill the heart with its present mo- 
ment. To me it makes a break in the chain of thought the other 
pictures had woven. 

Scene from Gil Bias — also unlike the other in being perfectly 
objective, and telling all its thought at once. It is a fine paint- 
ing. 

Mother and Child. A lovely little picture. But there is to 
my taste an air of got up naivete ana delicacy in it. It seems 



WASHINGTON ALLSTON. 295 

3elected, arranged by " an intellectual effort." It did not flow 
into the artist's mind like the others. But persons of better tastf 
than I like it better than I do ! 

• Jews — full of character. Isaac is too dignified and sad .; gold 
never rusted the soul of the man that owned that face. 

The Landscapes. At these I look with such unalloyed delight, 
that I have been at moments tempted to wish that the artist had 
concentrated his powers on this department of art, in so high a 
degree does he exhibit the attributes of the master ; a power of 
sympathy, which gives each landscape a perfectly individual 
character. Here the painter is merged in his theme, and these 
pictures affect us as parts of nature, so absorbed are we in con- 
templating them, so difficult is it to remember them as pictures. 
How the clouds float ! how the trees live and breathe out their 
mysterious souls in the peculiar attitude of every leaf. Dear 
companions of my life, whom yearly I know better, yet into 
whose heart I can no more penetrate than see your roots, while 
you live and grow, I feel what you have said to this painter ; 
I can in some degree appreciate the power he has shown in re- 
peating here the gentle oracle. 

The soul of the painter is in these landscapes, but not his char- 
acter. Is not that the highest art 1 Nature and the soul com- 
bined ; the former freed from slight crudities or blemishes, the 
latter from its merely human aspect. 

These landscapes are too truly works of art, their language is 
too direct, too lyrically perfect, to be translated into this of words, 
without doing them an injury. 

To those, who confound praise with indiscriminate eulogium, 
and who cannot understand the mind of one, whose highest expres- 
sion of admiration is a close scrutiny, perhaps the following lines 
will convey a truer impression, than the foregoing remarks, of 
the feelings of the writer. They were suggested by a picture 
pained by Mr. Allston for a gentleman of Boston, which has 



296 PAPERS ON LITERATURE AND ART. 

never yet been publicly exhibited. It is of the same class with 
his Rosalie and Evening Hymn, pictures which were not particu- 
larized in the above record, because they inspired no thought 
except of their excelling beauty, which draws the heart into it- 
self. 

These two sonnets may be interesting, as showing how simi- 
lar trains of thought were opened in the minds of two observers. 

" To-day I have been to see Mr. Allston's new picture of The 
Bride, and am more convinced than ever of the depth and value 
of his genius, and of how much food for thought his works con- 
tain. The face disappointed me at first by its want of beauty. 
Then I observed the peculiar expression of the eyes, and that of 
the lids, which tell such a tale, as well as the strange complex- 
ion, all heightened by the colour of the background, till the im- 
pression became very strong. It is the story of the lamp of love, 
lighted, even burning with full force in a being that cannot yet 
comprehend it. The character is domestic, far more so than that 
of the ideal and suffering Rosalie, of which, nevertheless, it re- 
minds you. 

" TO W. ALLSTON, ON SEEING HIS ' BRIDE.' 

" Weary and slow and faint with heavy toil, 
The fainting traveller pursues his way, 
O'er dry Arabian sands the long, long day, 
Where at each step floats up the dusty soil ; 
And when he finds a green and gladsome isle, 
And flowing water in that plain of care, 
And in the midst a marble fountain fair, 
To tell that others suffered too erewhile, 
And then appeased their thirst, and made this fount 
To them a sad remembrance, but a joy 
To all who follow — his tired spirits mount 
At such dim-visioned company — so I 
Drink of thy marble source, and do not count 
Weary the way in which thou hast gone bv." 



WASHINGTON ALLSTON. 297 

TO ALLSTON'S PICTURE, 'THE BRIDE.» 

Not long enough we gaze upon that face, 
Not pure enough the life with which we live, 
To be full tranced by that softest grace, 
To win all pearls those lucid depths can give ; 
Here Phantasy has borrowed wings of Even, 
And stolen Twilight's latest, sacred hues, 
A Soul has visited the woman's heaven, 
Where palest lights a silver sheen diffuse, 
To see aright the vision which he saw, 
We must ascend as high upon the stair, 
Which leads the human thought to heavenly law, 
And see the flower bloom in its natal air ; 
Thus might we read aright the lip and brow, 
Where Thought and Love beam too subduing for our senses now. 



AMERICAN LITERATURE; 

ITS POSITION IN THE PRESENT TIME, AND PROSPECTS FOR THE 
FUTURE. 



Some thinkers may object to this essay, that we are about to 
write of that which has, as yet, no existence. 

\For it does not follow because many books are written by per- 
sons Dorn in America that there exists an American literature 
Books which imitate or represent the thoughts and life of 
Europe do not constitute an American literature. Before such 
can exist, an original idea must animate this nation and fresh 
currents of life must call into life fresh thoughts along its shores. 

We have no sympathy with national vanity. We are not 
anxious to prove that there is as yet much American litetatnre. 
Of those who think and write among us in the methods and of the 
thoughts of Europe, we are not impatient ; if their minds are still 
best adapted to such food and such action. If their books express 
life of mind and character in graceful forms, they are good and 
we like them. We consider them as colonists and useful school- 
masters to our people in a transition state ; which lasts rathei 
longer than is occupied in passing, bodily, the ocean which 
separates the new from the old world. 

We have been accused of an undue attachment to foreign 
continental literature, and, it is true, that in childhood, we had 
well nigh " forgotten our English," while constantly reading in 
other languages. Still, what we loved in the literature of conti- 
nental Europe was the range and force of ideul manifestation in 

(298) 



AMERICAN LITERATJRE. 299 

forms of national and individual greatness. A model was before 
us in the great Latins of simple masculine minds seizing 5 upon 
life with unbroken power. The stamp both of nationality and 
individuality was very strong upon them ; their lives and thoughts 
stood out in clear and bold relief. The English character has the 
iron force of the Latins, but not the frankness and expansion. 
Like their fruits, they need a summer sky to give them more 
sweetness and a richer flavour. This does not apply to Shakspeare, 
who has all the fine side of English genius, with the rich col- 
ouring, and more fluent life, of the Catholic countries. Other 
poets, of England also, are expansive more or less, and soar 
freely to seek the blue sky, but take it as a whole, there is in 
English literature, as in English character, a reminiscence of 
walls and ceilings, a tendency to the arbitrary and conventional 
that repels a mind trained in admiration of the antique spirit. It 
is only in later days that we are learning to prize the peculiar 
greatness which a thousand times outweighs this fault, and which 
has enabled English genius to go forth from its insular position 
and conquer such vast dominion in the realms both of matter and 
of mind. 

Yet there is, often, between child and parent, a reaction from 
excessive influence having been exerted, and such an one we 
have experienced, in behalf of our country, against England. 
We use her language, and receive, in torrents, the influence of 
her thought, yet it is, in many respects, uncongenial and injurious 
to our constitution. What suits Great Britain, with her insular 
position and consequent need to concentrate and intensify her 
life, her limited monarchy, and spirit of trade, does not suit a 
, mixed race, continually enriched with new blood from other 
stocks the most unlike that of our first descent, with ample field 
and verge enough to range in and leave every impulse free, and 
abundant opportunity to develope a genius, wide and full as our 
rivers, flowery, luxuriant and impassioned as our vast prairies, 



300 PAPERS ON LITERATURE AND ART. 

rooted in strength as the rocks on which the Puritan fathers 
landed. 

That such a genius is to rise and work in this hemisphere we 
are confident ; equally so that scarce the first faint streaks oi 
that day's dawn are yet visible. It is sad for those that fore 
see, to know they nay not live to share its glories, yet it is 
sweet, too, to know that every act and word, uttered in the light 
of that foresight, may tend to hasten or ennoble its fulfilment. 

That day will not rise till the fusion of races among us is 
more complete. It will not rise till this nation shall attain suffi- 
cient moral and intellectual dignity to prize moral and intellec- 
tual, no less highly than political, freedom, not till, the physical 
resources of the country being explored, all its regions studded 
with towns, broken by the plow, netted together by railways and 
telegraph lines, talent shall be left at leisure to turn its energies 
upon the higher department of man's existence. Nor then shall it 
be seen till from the leisurely and yearning soul of that riper 
time national ideas shall take birth, ideas craving to be clothed 
in a thousand fresh and original forms. 

Without such ideas all attempts to construct a national litera- 
ture must end in abortions like the monster of Frankenstein, 
things with forms, and the instincts of forms, but soulless, and 
therefore revolting. We cannot have expression till there is 
something to be expressed. 

The symptoms of such a birth may be seen in a longing felt 
here and there for the sustenance of such ideas. At present, it 
shows itself, where felt, in sympathy with the prevalent tone of 
society, by attempts at external action, such as are classed under 
the head of social reform. But it needs to go deeper, before we 
can have poets, needs to penetrate beneath the springs of action, 
to stir and remake the soil as by the action of fire. 

Another symptom is the need felt by individuals of being even 
sternly sincere. This is the one great means by which alone 



AMERICAN LITERATURE. 301 

progress can be essentially furthered. Truth is the nursing 
mother of genius. No man can be absolutely true to himself, 
eschewing cant, compromise, servile imitation, and complaisance, 
without becoming original, for there is in every creature a foun- 
tain of life which, if not choked back by stones and other dead 
rubbish, will create a fresh atmosphere, and bring to life fresh 
beauty. And it is the same with the nation as with the indi- 
vidual man. 

The best work we do for the future is by such truth. By use 
of that, in whatever way, we harrow the soil and lay it open to 
the sun and air. The winds from all quarters of the globe bring 
seed enough, and there is nothing wanting but preparation of the 
soil, and freedom in the atmosphere, for ripening of a new and 
golden harvest. 

We are sad that we cannot be present at the gathering in of 
this harvest. And yet we are joyous, too, when we think that 
though our name may not be writ on the pillar of our country's 
fame, we can really do far more towards rearing it, than those 
who come at a later period and to a seemingly fairer task. Now, 
the humblest effort, made in a noble spirit, and with religious 
hope, cannot fail to be even infinitely useful. Whether we in- 
troduce some noble model from another time and clime, to en- 
courage aspiration in our own, or cheer into blossom the simplest 
wood-flower that ever rose from the earth, moved by the genuine 
impulse to grow, independent of the lures of money or celebrity ; 
whether we speak boldly when fear or doubt keep others silent, 
or refuse to swell the popular cry upon an unworthy occasion, 
the spirit of truth, purely worshipped, shall turn our acts and 
forbearances alike to profit, informing them with oracles which 
the latest time shall bless. 

Under present circumstances the amount of talent and labour 
given to writing ought to surprise us. Literature is in this dim 
and struggling state, and its pecuniary results exceedingly 
26 



302 PAPERS ON LITERATURE AND ART. 

pitiful. From many well known causes it is impossible for 
ninety-nine out of the hundred, who wish to use the pen, to 
ransom, by its use, the time they need. This state of things will 
have to be changed in some way. No man of genius writes for 
money ; but it is essential to the free use of his powers, that he 
should be able to disembarrass his life from care and perplexity. 
This is very difficult here ; and the state of things gets worse and 
worse, as less and less is offered in pecuniary meed for works 
demanding great devotion of time and labour (to say nothing of the 
ether engaged) and the publisher, obliged to regard the transac- 
tion as a matter of business, demands of the author to give him 
only what will find an immediate market, for he cannot afford to 
take any thing else. This will not do ! When an immortal 
poet was secure only of a few copyists to circulate his works, 
there were princes and nobles to patronize literature and the arts. 
Here is only the public, and the public must learn how to cherish 
the nobler and rarer plants, and to plant the aloe, able to wait 
a hundred years for its bloom, or its garden will contain, pres- 
ently, nothing but potatoes and pot-herbs. We shall have, in the 
course of the next two or three years, a convention of authors to 
inquire into the causes of this state of things and propose mea- 
sures for its remedy. Some have already been thought of that 
look promising, but we shall not announce them till the time be 
ripe ; that date is not distant, for the difficulties increase from 
day to day, in consequence of the system of cheap publication, 
on a great scale. 

The ranks that led the way in the first half century of this 
republic were far better situated than we, in this respect. The 
country was not so deluged with the dingy page, reprinted from 
Europe, and patriotic vanity was on the alert to answer the ques- 
tion, " Who reads an American book ?" And many were the 
books written, worthy to be read, as any out of the first class in 



AMERICAN LITERATURE. 303 

England. They were, most of them, except in their subject 
matter, English books. 

The list is large, and, in making some cursory comments, we 
do not wish to be understood as designating all who are worthy 
of notice, but only those who present themselves to our minds 
with some special claims. In history there has been nothing 
done to which the world at large has not been eager to award 
the full meed of its deserts. Mr. Prescott, for instance, has been 
greeted with as much warmth abroad as here. We are not 
disposed to undervalue his industry and power of clear and ele- 
gant arrangement. The richness and freshness of his materials 
is such that a sense of enchantment must be felt in their 
contemplation. We must regret, however, that they should have 
been first presented to the public by one who possesses nothing 
of the higher powers of the historian, great leading views, or 
discernment as to the motives of action and the spirit of an era. 
Considering the splendour of the materials the books are won- 
derfully tame, and every one must feel that having once passed 
through them and got the sketch in the mind, there is nothing 
else to which it will recur. The absence of thought, as to that 
great picture of Mexican life, with its heroisms, its terrible but 
deeply significant superstitions, its admirable civic refinement, 
seems to be quite unbroken. 

Mr. Bancroft is a far more vivid writer ; he has great resources 
and great command of them, and leading thoughts by whose aid he 
groups his facts. But we cannot speak fully of his historical 
works, which we have only read and referred to here and there. 

In the department of ethics and philosophy, we may inscribe 
two names as likely to live and be blessed and honoured in the 
later time. These are the names of Channing and of Emerson. 

Dr. Channing had several leading thoughts which correspond- 
ed with the wants of his time, and have made him in it a father 
af thought. His leading idea of "the dignity of human nature" 



304 PAPERS ON LITERATURE AND ART. 

is one of vast results, and the peculiar form in which he advocated 
it had a great work to do in this new world. The spiritual 
beauty of his writings is very great ; they are all distinguished 
for sweetness, elevation, candour, and a severe devotion to truth. 
On great questions, he took middle ground, and sought a pano- 
ramic view ; he wished also to stand high, yet never forgot what 
was above more than what was around and beneath him. He 
was not well acquainted with man on the impulsive and pas- 
sionate side of his nature, so that his view of character was 
sometimes narrow, but it was always noble. He exercised an 
expansive and purifying power on the atmosphere, and stands a 
godfather at the baptism of this country. 

The Sage of Concord has a very different mind, in every 
thing except that he has the same disinterestedness and dignity 
of purpose, the same purity of spirit. He is a profound thinker. 
He is a man of ideas, and deals with causes rather than effects. 
His ideas are illustrated from a wide range of literary culture 
and refined observation, and embodied in a style whose melody 
and subtle fragrance enchant those who stand stupified before the 
thoughts themselves, because their utmost depths do not enable 
them to sound his shallows. His influence does not yet extend 
over a wide space ; he is too far beyond his place and his time, 
to be felt at once or in full, but it searches deep, and yearly 
widens its circles. He is a harbinger of the better day. His 
beautiful elocution has been a great aid to him in opening the 
way for the reception of his written word. 

In that large department of literature which includes descrip- 
tive sketches, whether of character or scenery, we are already 
rich. Irving, a genial and fair nature, just what he ought to be, 
and would have been, at any time of the world, has drawn the 
scenes amid which his youth was spent in their primitive linea- 
ments, with all the charms of his graceful jocund humour. lie 



AMERICAN LITERATURE. 305 

has his niche and need never be deposed ; it is not one that 
another could occupy. 

The first enthusiasm about Cooper having subsided, we remem- 
ber more his faults than his merits. His i*eady resentment and 
way of showing it in cases which it is the wont of gentlemen to 
pass by in silence, or meet with a good humoured smile, have 
caused unpleasant associations with his name, and his fellow 
citizens, in danger of being tormented by suits for libel, if they 
spoke freely of him, have ceased to speak of him at all. But 
neither these causes, nor the baldness of his plots, shallowness of 
thought, and poverty in the presentation of character, should 
make us forget the grandeur and originality of his sea-sketches, 
nor the redemption from oblivion of our forest-scenery, and the 
noble romance of the hunter-pioneer's life. Already, but for 
him, this fine page of life's romance would be almost forgot- 
ten. He has done much to redeem these irrevocable beauties 
from the corrosive acid of a semi-civilized invasion.* 

* Since writing the above we have read some excellent remarks by Mr. W. 
G. Simms on the writings of Cooper. We think the reasons are given for the 
powerful interest excited by Hawk Eye and the Pilot, with great discrimination 
and force. 

" They both think and feel, with a highly individual nature, that has been 
taught, by constant contemplation, in scenes of solitude. The vast unbroken 
ranges of forest to its one lonely occupant press upon the mind with the same 
sort of solemnity which one feels condemned to a life of partial isolation upon 
the ocean. Both are permitted that degree of commerce with their fellow beings, 
which suffices to maintain in strength the sweet and sacred sources of their 
humanity. * * * The very isolation to which, in the most successful of his 
stories, Mr. Cooper subjects his favourite personages, is, alone, a proof of his 
strength and genius. While the ordinary writer, the man of mere talent, is 
compelled to look around him among masses for his material, he contents him- 
self with one man, and flings him upon the wilderness. The picture, then, 
which follows, must be one of intense individuality. Out of this one mans na- 
ture, his moods and fortunes, he spins his story. The agencies and dependen- 
cies are few. With the self-reliance which is only found in true genius, he 
26* 



306 PAPERS ON LITERATURE AND ART. 

Miss Sedgwick and others have portrayed, with skill and feel. 
ing, scenes and personages from the revolutionary time. Such 
have a permanent value in proportion as their subject is fleeting. 
The same charm attends the spirited delineations of Mrs. Kirk- 
land, and that amusing book, " A New Purchase." The features 
of Hoosier, Sucker, and Wolverine life are worth fixing ; they 
are peculiar to the so'l, and indicate its hidden treasures ; they 
have, also, that charm which simple life, lived for its own sake, 
always has, even in rude and all but brutal forms. 

What shall we say of the poets ? The list is scanty ; amazingly 
so, for there is nothing in the causes that paralyze other kinds 
of literature that could affect lyrical and narrative poetry. Men's 
hearts beat, hope, and surfer always, and they must crave such 
means to vent them ; yet of the myriad leaves garnished with 
smooth stereotyped rhymes that issue yearly from our press, you 
will not find, one time in a million, a little piece written from any 
such impulse, or with the least sincerity or sweetness of tone. 
They are written for the press, in the spirit of imitation or vanity, 
the paltriest offspring of the human brain, for the heart dis- 
claims, as the ear is shut against them. This is the kind of 
verse which is cherished by the magazines as a correspondent to 
the tawdry pictures of smiling milliners' dolls in the frontispiece. 
Like these they are only a fashion, a fashion based on no reality 
of love or beauty. The inducement to write them consists in a 
little money, or more frequently the charm of seeing an anony- 
mous name printed at the top in capitals. 

We must here, in passing, advert also to the style of story 

goes forward into the wilderness, whether of land or ocean ; and the vicissi- 
tudes of either region, acting upon the natural resources of one man's mind, 
furnish the whole material of his work-shop. This mode of performance ia 
highly dramatic, and thus it is that his scout, his trapper, his hunter, his pilot, 
all live to our eyes and thoughts, the perfect ideals of moral individuality." 

No IX. Wiley and Putnam's Library of American books. — Views and Re- 
views by W. G. Simms. 



AMERICAN LITERATURE. 307 

current in the magazines, flimsy beyond any texture that was 
ever spun or even dreamed of by the mind of man, in any other 
age and country. They are said to be " written for the seam- 
stresses," but we believe that every way injured class could 
relish and digest better fare even at the end of long days of 
exhausting labour. There are exceptions to this censure ; stories 
by Mrs. Child have been published in the magazines, and now 
and then good ones by Mrs. Stephens and others ; but, take them 
generally, they are calculated to do a positive injury to the pub- 
lic mind, acting as an opiate, and of an adulterated kind, too. 

But to return to the poets. At their head Mr. Bryant stands 
alone. His range is not great, nor his genius fertile. But his 
poetry is purely the language of his inmost nature, and the sim- 
ple lovely garb in which his thoughts are arranged, a direct gift 
from the Muse. He has written nothing that is not excellent, 
and the atmosphere of his verse refreshes and composes the 
mind, like leaving the highway to enter some green, lovely, 
fragrant wood. 

Halleck and Willis are poets of society. Though the former 
has written so little, yet that little is full of fire, — elegant, witty, 
delicate in sentiment. It is an honour to the country that these 
occasional sparks, struck off from the flint of commercial life, 
should have kindled so much flame as they have. It is always a 
consolation to see one of them sparkle amid the rubbish of daily 
life. One of his poems has been published within the last year, 
written, in fact, long ago, but new to most of us, and it enlivened 
the literary thoroughfare, as a green wreath might some dusty, 
musty hall of legislation. 

Willis has not the same terseness or condensed electricity. 
But he has grace, spirit, at times a winning pensiveness, and a 
lively, though almost wholly sensuous, delight in the beautiful. 

Dana has written so little that he would hardly be seen in a 
more thickly garnished galaxy. But the masculine strength of 



308 PAPERS ON LITERATURE/ AND ART. 

feeling, the solemn tenderness and refined thought displayed in 
such pieces as the " Dying Raven," and the " Husband and 
Wife's Grave," have left a deep impression on the popular mind. 

Longfellow is artificial and imitative. He borrows incessant- 
ly, and mixes what he borrows, so that it does not appear to the 
best advantage. He is very faulty in using broken or mixed 
metaphors. The ethical part of his writing has a hollow, second- 
hand sound. He has, however, elegance, a love of the beautiful, 
and a fancy for what is large and manly, if not a full sympathy 
with it. His verse breathes at times much sweetness ; and, if 
not allowed to supersede what is better may promote a taste for good 
poetry. Though imitative, he is not mechanical. 

We cannot say as much for Lowell, who, we must declare it, 
though to the grief of some friends, and the disgust of more, is 
absolutely wanting in the true spirit and tone of poesy. His in- 
terest in the moral questions of the day has supplied the want of 
vitality in himself; his great facility at versification has enabled 
him to fill the ear with a copious stream of pleasant sound. 
But his verse is stereotyped ; his thought sounds no depth, and 
posterity will not remember him. 

R. W. Emerson, in melody, in subtle beauty of thought and 
expression, takes the highest rank upon this list. But his poems 
are mostly philosophical, which is not the truest kind of poetry. 
They want the simple force of nature and passion, and, while 
they charm the ear and interest the mind, fail to wake far-off 
echoes in the heart. The imagery wears a symbolical air, and 
serves rather as illustration, than to delight us by fresh and glow- 
ing forms of life. 

We must here mention one whom the country has not yet 
learned to honour, perhaps never may, for he wants artistic skill 
to give complete form to his inspiration. This is William Ellery 
Channing, nephew and namesake of Dr. C, a volume of whose 
poems, published three or four years ago in Boston, remains un- 



AMERICAN LITERATURE.. 309 

known, except to a few friends, nor, if known, would they proba- 
bly, excite sympathy, as those which have been published in the 
periodicals have failed to do so. Yet some of the purest tones of 
the lyre are his, the finest inspirations as to the feelings and pas- 
sions of men, deep spiritual insight, and an entire originality in 
the use of his means.' The frequently unfinished and obscure 
state of his poems, a passion for forcing words out of their usual 
meaning into one which they may appropriately bear, but which 
comes upon the reader with an unpleasing and puzzling surprise, 
may repel, at first glance, from many of these poems, but do not 
mar the following sublime description of the beings we want, 
to rule, to redeem, to re-create this nation, and under whose 
reign alone can there be an American literature, for then only 
could we have life worth recording. The simple grandeur of 
this poem as a whole, must be felt by every one, while each line 
and thought will be found worthy of earnest contemplation and 
satisfaction after the most earnest life and thought. 

Hearts of Eternity ! hearts of the deep ! 
Proclaim from land to sea your mighty fate ; 
How that for you no living comes too late; 
How ye cannot in Theban labyrinth creep; 
How ye great harvests from small surface reap ; 
Shout, excellent band, in grand primeval strain, 
Like midnight winds that foam along the main, 
And do all things rather than pause to weep. 
A human heart knows naught of littleness, 
Suspects no man, compares with no man's ways, 
Hath in one hoar most glorious length of days, 
A recompense, a joy, a loveliness ; 
Like eaglet keen, shoots into azure far, 
And always dwelling nigh is the remotest star. 

A series of poems, called " Man in the Republic," by Corne- 
lius Mathews, deserves a higher meed of sympathy than it has 
recehed. The thoughts and views are strong and noble, the ex- 



310 PAPERS ON LITERATURE AND ART. 

hibition of them imposing. In plastic power this writer is defi 
cient. His prose works sin in exuberance, and need consolida* 
ting and chastening. We find fine things, but not so arranged 
as to be seen in the right places and by the best light. In his 
poems Mr. Mathews is unpardonably rough and rugged ; the poetic 
substance finds no musical medium in which to flow. Yet there 
is poetic substance which makes full chords, if not a harmony. 
He holds a worthy sense of the vocation of the poet, and worthily 
expresses it thus : — 

To strike or bear, to conquer or to yield 
Teach thou ! O topmost crown of duty, teach, 
What fancy whispers to the listening ear, 
At hours when tongue nor taint of care impeach 
The fruitful calm of greatly silent hearts ; 
When all the stars for happy thought are set, 
And, in the secret chambers of the soul, 
All blessed powers of joyful truth are met; 
Though calm and garlandless thou mayst appear, 
The world shall know thee for its crowned seer. 

A considerable portion of the hope and energy of this country 
still turns towards the drama, that greatest achievement when 
wrought to perfection of human power. For ourselves, we 
believe the day of the regular drama to be past ; and, though we 
recognize the need of some kind of spectacle and dramatic repre- 
sentation to be absolutely coincident with an animated state of 
the public mind, we have thought that the opera, ballet, panto- 
mine and briefer, more elastic forms, like the vaudeville of the 
French theatre, or the proverb of the social party, would take the 
place of elaborate tragedy and comedy. 

But those who find the theatres of this city well filled all the 
year round by an audience willing to sit out the heroisms of 
Roll a, and the sentimentalism and stale morality of such a pieca 
as we were doomed to listen to while the Keans were here, 
(" Town and Country" was its name,) still think there is room 



AMERICAN LITERATURE. 311 

for the regular drama, if genius should engage in its creation. 
Accordingly there have been in tnis country, as well as in Eng- 
land, many attempts to produce dramas suitable for action no less 
than for the closet. The actor, Murdoch, about to devote 
himself with enthusiasm and hope to prop up a falling profession, 
is to bring out a series of plays written, not merely for him, but 
because his devotion is likely to furnish fit occasion for their 
appearance. The first of these, " Witchcraft, a tragedy," 
brought out successfully upon the boards at Philadelphia, we 
have read, and it is a work of strong and majestic lineaments ; a 
fine originality is shown in the conception, by which the love of 
a son for a mother is made a sufficient motiv (as the Germans 
call the ruling impulse of a work) in the production of tragic 
interest ; no less original is the attempt, and delightful the suc- 
cess, in making an aged woman a satisfactory heroine to the 
piece through the greatness of her soul, and the magnetic influ- 
ence it exerts on all around her, till the ignorant and superstitious 
fancy that the sky darkens and the winds wait upon her as she 
walks on the lonely hill-side near her hut to commune with the 
Past, and seek instruction from Heaven. The working of her 
character on the other agents of the piece is depicted with force 
and nobleness. The deep love of her son for her, the little ten- 
der, simple ways in which he shows it, having preserved the 
purity and poetic spirit of childhood by never having been weaned 
from his first love, a mother's love, the anguish of his soul when 
he too becomes infected with distrust, and cannot discriminate 
the natural magnetism of a strong nature from the spells and 
lures of sorcery, the final triumph of his faith, all offered the 
highest scope to genius and the power of moral perception in the 
actor. There are highly poetic intimations of those lowering days 
with their veiled skies, brassy light, and sadly whispering winds, 
very common in Massachusetts, so ominous and brooding seen from 
any point, but from the idea of witchcraft, invested with an awful 



312 PAPERS ON LITERATURE AND ART. 

significance. We do not know, however, that this could bring 
it beyond what it has appeared to our own sane mind, as 
if the air was thick with spirits, in an equivocal and surely sad 
condition, whether of purgatory or downfall ; and the air was 
vocal with all manner of dark intimations. We are glad to see 
this mood of nature so fitly characterized. 

The sweetness and naivete with which the young girl is made 
to describe the effects of love upon her, as supposing them to 
proceed from a spell, are also original, and there is no other way 
in which this revelation could have been induced that would not 
have injured the beauty of the character and position. Her 
visionary sense of her lover, as an ideal figure, is of a high 
order of poetry, and these facts have very seldom been brought 
out from the cloisters of the mind into the light of open day. 

The play is very deficient as regards rhythm ; indeed, we 
might say there is no apparent reason why the lines should begin 
with capital letters. The minor personages are mere caricatures, 
very coarsely drawn ; all the power is concentrated on the main 
characters and their emotions. So did not Shakspeare, does not 
ever the genuine dramatist, whose mind teems with " the fulness 
of forms." As Raphael in his most crowded groups can put 
in no misplaced or imperfect foot or hand, neither neglect to in- 
vest the least important figure of his backgrounds with every 
characteristic trait, nor could spare the invention of the most 
beautiful coiffure and accessories for the humblest handmaid of 
his Madonnas, so doth the great artist always clothe the whole 
picture with full and breathing life, for it appears so before his 
mental eye. But minds not perfectly artistical, yet of strong 
conceptions, subordinate the rest to one or two leading figures, 
and the imperfectly represented life of the others incloses them, 
as in a frame. 

In originality of conception and resting the main interest upon 
force of character in a woman, this drama naturally leads us to 



AMERICAN LITERATURE. 313 

revert to a work in the department of narrative fiction, which, on 
similar grounds, comes to us as a harbinger of the new era. 
This book is " Margaret, or the Real and Ideal," a work which 
has appeared within the past year ; and, considering its origi- 
nality and genuineness, has excited admiration and sympathy 
amazingly soon. Even some leading reviews, of what Byron 
used to speak of as the " garrison " class, (a class the most 
opposite imaginable to that of Garrison abolitionists,) have dis- 
cussed its pretensions and done homage to its merits. It is a 
work of great power and richness, a genuine disclosure of the 
life of mind and the history of character. Its descriptions of 
scenery and the common people, in the place and time it takes 
up, impart to it the highest value as a representative of transient 
existence, which had a great deal of meaning. The beautiful 
simplicity of action upon and within the mind of Margaret, 
Heaven lying so clearly about her in the infancy of the hut of 
drunkards, the woods, the village, and their ignorant, simply 
human denizens, her unconscious growth to the stature of woman- 
hood, the flow of life impelled by her, the spiritual intimations 
of her dreams, the prophecies of music in the character of 
Chilion, the naive discussion of the leading reform movements of 
the day in their rudimental forms, the archness, the humour, the 
profound religious faith, make of this book an aviary from which 
doves shall go forth to discover and report of all the green spots 
of promise in the land. Of books like this, as good, and still 
better, our new literature shall be full ; and, though one swallow 
does not make a summer, yet we greet, in this one " Yankee 
novel," the sufficient earnest of riches that only need the skill 
of competent miners to be made current for the benefit of man. 

Meanwhile, the most important part of our literature, while 
the work of diffusion is still going on, lies in the journals, which 
monthly, weekly, daily, send their messages to every corner of 
27 



314 PAPERS ON LITERATURE AND ART. 

his great land, and form, at present, the only efficient instrument 
for the general education of the people. 

Among these, the Magazines take the lowest rank. Their 
object is principally to cater for the amusement of vacant hours, 
and, as there is not a great deal of wit and light talent in this 
country, they do not even this to much advantage. More wit, 
grace, and elegant trifling, embellish the annals of literature in 
one day of France than in a year of America. 

The Reviews are more able. If they cannot compare, on equal 
terms, with those of France, England, and Germany, where, if 
genius be rare, at least a vast amount of talent and culture are 
brought to bear upon all the departments of knowledge, they are 
yet very creditable to a new country, where so large a portion of 
manly ability must be bent on making laws, making speeches, 
making rail-roads and canals. They are, however, much injur- 
ed by a partisan spirit, and the fear of censure from their own 
public. This last is always slow death to a journal ; its natural 
and only safe position is to lead ; if, instead, it bows to the will 
of the multitude, it will find the ostracism of democracy far more 
dangerous than the worst censure of a tyranny could be. It is 
not half so dangerous to a man to be immured in a dungeon alone 
with God and his own clear conscience, as to walk the streets 
fearing the scrutiny of a thousand eyes, ready to veil, with anx- 
ious care, whatever may not suit the many-headed monster in its 
momentary mood. Gentleness is dignified, but caution is debas- 
ing ; only a noble fearlessness can give wings to the mind, with 
which to soar beyond the common ken, and learn what may be of 
use to the crowd below. Writers have nothing to do but to love 
truth fervently, seek justice according to their ability, and then 
express what is in the mind ; they have nothing to do with con- 
sequences, God will take care of those. The want of such noble 
courage, such faith in the power of truth and good desire, paralyze 
mind greatly in this country. Publishers are afraid j authors 



AMERICAN LITERATURE. 315 

are afraid ; and if a worthy resistance is not made by religious 
souls, there is danger that all the light will soon be put under 
bushels, lest some wind should waft from it a spark that may 
kindle dangerous fire. 

For want of such faith, and the catholic spirit that flows from 
it, we have no great leading Review. The North American was 
once the best. While under the care of Edward Everett, himself a 
host in extensive knowledge, grace and adroitness in applying it, 
and the power of enforcing grave meanings by a light and flexi- 
ble satire that tickled while it wounded, it boasted more force, 
more life, a finer scope of power. But now, though still exhibit- 
ing ability and information upon special points, it is entirely de- 
ficient in great leadings, and the vivida vis, but ambles and jogs 
at an old gentlemanly pace along a beaten path that leads to no 
important goal. 

Several other journals have more life, energy and directness 
than this, but there is none which occupies a truly great and 
commanding position, a beacon light to all who sail that way. In 
order to this, a journal must know how to cast aside all local and 
temporary considerations when new convictions command, and 
allow free range in its columns, to all kinds of ability, and all 
ways of viewing subjects. That would give it a life, rich, bold 
various. 

The life of intellect is becoming more and more determined to 
the weekly and daily papers, whose light leaves fly so rapidly 
and profusely over the land. Speculations are afloat, as to the 
influence of the electric telegraph upon their destiny, and it seems 
obvious that it should raise their character by taking from them in 
some measure, the office of gathering and dispersing the news, 
and requiring of them rather to arrange and interpret it. 

This mode of communication is susceptible of great excellence 
in the way of condensed essay, narrative, criticism, and is the 
natural receptacle for the lyrics of the day. That so few good 



31G " PAPERS ON LITERATURE AND ART. 

ones deck the poet's corner, is because the indifference or unfit- 
ness of editors, as to choosing and refusing, makes this place, at 
present, undesirable to the poet. It might be otherwise. 

The means which this organ affords of diffusing knowledge and 
sowing the seeds of thought where they may hardly fail of an 
infinite harvest, cannot be too highly prized by the discerning and 
benevolent. Minds of the first class are generally indisposed 
to this kind of writing ; what must be done on the spur of the 
occasion and cast into the world so incomplete, as the hurried off- 
spring of a day or hour's labour must generally be, cannot satisfy 
their judgment, or do justice to their powers. But he who looks 
to the benefit of others, and sees with what rapidity and ease in- 
struction and thought are assimilated by men, when they come 
thus, as it were, on the wings of the wind, may be content, as an 
unhonoured servant to the grand purposes of Destiny, to work in 
such a way at the Pantheon which the Ages shall complete, on 
which his name may not be inscribed, but which will breathe the 
life of his soul. 

The confidence in uprightness of intent, and the safety of truth, 
is still more needed here than in the more elaborate kinds of wri- 
ting, as meanings cannot be fully explained nor expressions re- 
vised. Newspaper writing is next door to conversation, and 
should be conducted on the same principles. It has this advan- 
tage : we address, not our neighbour, who forces us to remember 
his limitations and prejudices, but the ideal presence of human 
nature as we feel it ought to be and trust it will be. We address 
America rather than Americans. 

A worthy account of the vocation and duties of the journalist, 
is given by Cornelius Mathews. Editors, generally, could nol 
do better than every New Year's day to read and insert the fol 
lowing verses. 

As shakes the canvass of a thousand ships. 
Struck by a heavy land-breeze, far at sea, 



AMERICAN LITERATURE. 31/ 

Ruffle the thousand broad sheets of the land, 
Filled with the people's breath of potency. 

A thousand images the hour will take, 

From him who strikes, who rules, who speaks, who sings, 
Many within the hour their grave to make, 

Many to live, far in the heart of things. 

A dark-dyed spirit he, who coins the time, 

To virtue's wrong, in base disloyal lies, 
Who makes the morning's breath, the evening's tide, 

The utterer of his blighting forgeries. 

How beautiful who scatters, wide and free, 

The gold-bright seeds of loved and loving truth ! 

By whose perpetual hand, each day supplied, 
Leaps to new life the empire's heart of youth. 

To know the instant and to speak it true, 

Its passing lights of joy, its dark, sad cloud, 
To fix upon the unnumbered gazers' view, 

Is to thy ready hand's broad strength allowed. 

There is an inwrought life in every hour, 

Fit to be chronicled at large and told. 
'Tis thine to pluck to light its secret power, 

And on the air its many-colored heart unfold. 

The angel that in sand-dropped minutes lives, 

Demands a message cautious as the ages, 
Who stuns, with dusk-red words of hate his ear, 

That mighty power to boundless wrath enrages. 

This feeling of the dignity of his office, honour and power in 
fulfilling it, are not common in the journalist, but, where they 
exist, a mark has been left fully correspondent to the weight of 
the instrument. The few editors of this country who, with men- 
tal ability and resource, have combined strength of purpose and 
fairness of conduct, who have never merged the man and the 
gentleman in the partisan, who have been willing to have all sides 
fully heard, while their convictions were clear on one, who have 
disdained groundless assaults or angry replies, and have valued 
27* 



318 PAPERS ON LITERATURE AND ART. 

what was sincere, characteristic and free, too much to bend to 
popular errors they felt able to correct, have been so highly- 
prized that it is wonderful that more do not learn the use of this 
great opportunity. It will be learned yet ; the resources of this 
organ of thought and instruction begin to bo understood, and 
shall yet be brought out and used worthily. 

We see we have omitted honoured names in this essay. We 
have not spoken of Brown, as a novelist by far our first in point 
of genius and instruction as to the soul of things. Yet his works 
have fallen almost out of print. It is their dark, deep gloom 
that prevents their being popular, for their very beauties are grave 
and sad. But we see that Ormond is being republished at this 
moment. The picture of Roman character, of the life and re- 
sources of a single noble creature, of Constantia alone, should 
make that book an object of reverence. All these novels should 
be republished ; if not favorites, they should at least not be lost 
sight of, for there will always be some who find in such powers 
of mental analysis the only response to their desires. 

We have not spoken of Hawthorne, the best writer of the day, 
.n a similar range with Irving, only touching many more points 
and discerning far more deeply. But we have omitted many 
things in this slight sketch, for the subject, even in this stage, lies 
as a volume in our mind, and cannot be unrolled in completeness 
unless time and space were more abundant. Our object was to 
show that although by a thousand signs, the existence is foreshown 
of those forces which are to animate an American literature, that 
faith, those hopes are not yet alive which shall usher it into a ho- 
mogeneous or fully organized state of being. The future is 
glorious with certainties for those who do their duty in the pres- 
ent, and, lark-like, seeking the sun, challenge its eagles to an 
earthward flight, where their nests may be built in our mountains, 
and their young raise their cry of triumph, unchecked by dullness 
in the echoes. 



AMERICAN LITERATURE. 319 

Since finishing the foregoing essay, the publication of some 
volumes by Hawthorne and Brown have led to notices in " The 
Tribune," which, with a review of Longfellow's poems, are sub- 
joined to eke out the statement as to the merits of those authors. 



MOSSES FROM AN OLD MANSE: By Nathaniel Hawthorne.— In 
Two Parts. New- York : Wiley and Putnam. 1846. 



We have been seated here the last ten minutes, pen in hand, 
thinking what we can possibly say about this book that will not 
be either superfluous or impertinent. 

Superfluous, because the attractions of Hawthorne's writings 
cannot fail of one and the same effect on all persons who possess 
the common sympathies of men. To all who are still happy in 
some groundwork of unperverted Nature, the delicate, simple, 
human tenderness, unsought, unbought and therefore precious 
morality, the tranquil elegance and playfulness, the humour which 
never breaks the impression of sweetness and dignity, do an in- 
evitable message which requires no comment of the critic to make 
its meaning clear. Impertinent, because the influence of this 
mind, like that of some loveliest aspects of Nature, is to induce 
silence from a feeling of repose. We do not think of any thing 
particularly worth saying about this that has been so fitly and 
pleasantly said. 

Yet it seems unfit that we, in our office of chronicler of intel- 
lectual advents and apparitions, should omit to render open and 
audible honour to one whom we have long delighted to honour. 
It may be, too, that this slight notice of ours may awaken the at- 
tention of those distant or busy who might not otherwise search 
for the volume, which comes betimes in the leafy month of June. 

So we will give a slight account of it, even if we cannot sa\ 



320 PAPERS ON LITERATURE AND ART. 

much of value. Though Hawthorne has now a standard reputation, 
hoth for the qualities we have mentioned and the beauty of the 
style in which they are embodied, yet we believe he has not been 
very widely read. This is only because his works have not been 
published in the way to ensure extensive circulation in this new, 
hurrying world of ours. The immense extent of country ovei 
which the reading (still very small in proportion to the mere 
working) community is scattered, the rushing and pushing of our 
life at this electrical stage of development, leave no work a chance 
to be speedily and largely known that is not trumpeted and pla- 
carded. And, odious as are the features of a forced and artificial 
circulation, it must be considered that it does no harm in the end. 
Bad books will not be read if they are bought instead of good, 
while the good have an abiding life in the log-cabin settlements 
and Red River steamboat landings, to which they would in no 
other way penetrate. Under the auspices of Wiley and Putnam, 
Hawthorne will have a chance to collect all his own public about 
him, and that be felt as a presence which before was only a 
rumor. 

The volume before us shares the charms of Hawthorne's ear- 
lier tales.; the only difference being that his range of subjects is 
a little wider. There is the same gentle and sincere companion- 
ship with Nature, the same delicate but fearless scrutiny of the 
secrets of the heart, the same serene independence of petty and 
artificial restrictions, whether on opinions or conduct, the same 
familiar, yet pensive sense of the spiritual or demoniacal influen- 
ces that haunt the palpable life and common walks of men, not 
by many apprehended except in results. We have here to re- 
gret that Hawthorne, at this stage of his mind's life, lays no more 
decisive hand upon the apparition — brings it no nearer than in 
former days. We had hoped that we should see, no more as in 
a glass darkly, but face to face. Still, still brood over his page 
he genius of revery and the nonchalance of Nature, rather than 



AMERICAN LITERATURE. 321 

the ardent earnestness of the human soul which feels itself bora 
not only to see and disclose, but to understand and interpret such 
things. Hawthorne intimates and suggests, but he does not lay 
bare the mysteries of our being. 

The introduction to the " Mosses," in which the old manse, its 
inhabitants and visitants are portrayed, is written with even more 
than his usual charm of placid grace and many strokes of his ad- 
mirable good sense. Those who are not, like ourselves, familiar 
with the scene and its denizens, will still perceive how true that 
picture must be ; those of us who are thus familiar will best 
know how to prize the record of objects and influences unique in 
our country and time. 

"The Birth Mark" and "Rapaccini's Daughter," embody 
truths of profound importance in shapes of aerial elegance. la 
these, as here and there in all these pieces, shines the loveliest 
ideal of love, and the beauty of feminine purity (by which we 
mean no mere acts or abstinences, but perfect single truth felt and 
done in gentleness) which is its root. 

" The Celestial Railroad," for its wit, wisdom, and the grace- 
ful adroitness with which the natural and material objects are in- 
terwoven with the allegories, has already won its meed of admi- 
ration. " Fire-worship" is a most charming essay for its domes- 
tic sweetness and thoughtful life. " Goodman Brown" is one of 
those disclosures we have spoken of, of the secrets of the breast. 
Who has not known such a trial that is capable indeed of sincere 
aspiration toward that only good, that infinite essence, which men 
call God. Who has not known the hour when even that best be- 
loved image cherished as the one precious symbol left, in the 
range of human nature, believed to be still pure gold when all the 
rest have turned to clay, shows, in severe ordeal, the symptoms 
of alloy. Oh, hour of anguish, when the old familiar faces grow 
dark and dim in the lurid light — when the gods of the hearth, 
honoured in childhood, adored in youth, crumble, and nothing, 



322 PAPERS ON LITERATURE AND ART. 

nothing is left which the daily earthly feelings can embrace— can 
cherish with unbroken faith ! Yet some survive that trial more 
happily than young Goodman Brown. They are those who have 
not sought it — have never of their own accord walked forth with 
the Tempter into the dim shades of Doubt. Mrs. Bull-Frog is an 
excellent humourous picture of what is called to be "content at 
last with substantial realities ! !" The " Artist of the Beautiful" 
presents in a form that is, indeed, beautiful, the opposite view as 
to what are the substantial realities of life. Let each man choose 
between them according to his kind. Had Hawthorne written 
" Roger Malvin's Burial" alone, we should be pervaded with the 
sense of the poetry and religion of his soul. 

As a critic, the style of Hawthorne, faithful to his mind, shows 
repose, a great reserve of strength, a slow secure movement. 
Though a very refined, he is also a very clear writer, showing, 
as we said before, a placid grace, and an indolent command of 
language. 

And now, beside the full, calm yet romantic stream of his mind, 
we will rest. It has refreshment for the weary, islets of fascina- 
tion no less than dark recesses and shadows for the imaginative, 
pure reflections for the pure of heart and eye, and like the Con- 
cord he so well describes, many exquisite lilies for him who 
knows how to get at them. 



ORMOND ; or, The Secret Witness. 

W1ELAND; or, The Transformation. By Charles Brockden Browh. 
Library of Standard Romance. W. Taylor & Co., 2 Astor House. 



We rejoice to see these reprints of Brown's novels, as we have 
long been ashamed that one who ought to be the pride of the 
country, and who is, in the higher qualities of the mind, so far in 



AMERICAN LITERATURE. 323 

advance of our other novelists, should have become almost in- 
accessible to the public. 

It has been the custom to liken Brown to Godwin. But there 
was no imitation, no second-hand in the matter. They were 
congenial natures, and whichever had come first might have lent 
an impulse to the other. Either mind might have been conscious 
of the possession of that peculiar vein of ore without thinking of 
working it for the mint of the world, till the other, led by acci- 
dent, or overflow of feeling, showed him how easy it was to put 
the reveries of his solitary hours into words and upon paper for 
the benefit of his fellow men. 

" My mind to me a kingdom is." 

Such a man as Brown or Godwin has a right to say that. It 
is no scanty, turbid rill, requiring to be daily fed from a thousand 
others or from the clouds ! Its plenteous source rushes from a 
high mountain between bulwarks of stone. Its course, even and 
full, keeps ever green its banks, and affords the means of life and 
joy to a million gliding shapes, that fill its deep waters, and 
twinkle above its golden sands. 

Life and Joy ! Yes, Joy ! These two have been called the 
dark masters, because they disclose the twilight recesses of the 
human heart. Yet their gravest page is joy compared with the 
mixed, shallow, uncertain pleasures of vulgar minds. Joy ! be- 
cause they were all alive and fulfilled the purposes of being. No 
sham, no imitation, no convention deformed or veiled their native 
lineaments, checked the use of their natural force. All alive 
themselves, they understood that there is no joy without truth, no 
perception of joy without real life. Unlike most men, existence 
was to them not a tissue of words and seemings, but a substantial 
possession. 

Born Hegelians, without the pretensions of science, they sought 
God in their own consciousness, and found him. The heart, 



■i'l-i PAPERS ON LITERATURE AND ART. 

because it saw itself so fearfully and wonderfully made, did not 
disown its Maker. With the highest idea of the dignity, power 
and beauty of which human nature is capable, they had courage 
to see by what an oblique course it proceeds, yet never lose faith 
that it would reach its destined aim. Thus their darkest dis- 
closures are not hobgoblin shows, but precious revelations. 

Brown is great as ever human writer was in showing the self- 
sustaining force of which a lonely mind is capable. He takes 
one person, makes him brood like the bee, and extract from the 
common life before him all its sweetness, its bitterness, and its 
nourishment. 

We say makes him, but it increases our own interest in Brown 
that, a prophet in this respect of a better era, he has usually 
placed this thinking royal mind in the body of a woman. This 
personage too is always feminine, both in her character and 
circumstances, but a conclusive proof that the term feminine is 
not a synonym for weak. Constantia, Clara Wieland, have loving 
hearts, graceful and plastic natures, but they have also noble 
thinking minds, full of resource, constancy, courage. The 
Marguerite of Godwin, no less, is all refinement, and the purest 
tenderness, but she is also the soul of honour, capable of deep 
discernment and of acting in conformity with the inferences she 
draws. The man of Brown and Godwin has not eaten of the fruit 
of the tree of knowledge and been driven to sustain himself by 
sweat of his brow for nothing, but has learned the structure and 
laws of things, and become a being, rational, benignant, various, 
and desirous of supplying the loss of innocence by the attainment 
of virtue. So his woman need not be quite so weak as Eve, 
the slave of feeling or of flattery : she also has learned to guide 
aer helm amid the storm across the troubled waters. 

The horrors which mysteriously beset these persons, and 
against which, so far as outward facts go, they often strive in 
vain, are but a representation of those powers permitted to work 



AMERICAN LITERATURE. 325 

in the same way throughout the affairs of this world. Their de- 
moniacal attributes only represent a morbid state of the intellect, 
gone to excess from want of balance with the other p jwers. 
There is an intellectual as well as a physical drunkenness, and 
which no less impels to crime. Carwin, urged on to use his ven- 
triloquism, till the presence of such a strange agent wakened the 
seeds of fanaticism in the breast of Wieland, is in a state no 
more foreign to nature than that of the wretch executed last 
week, who felt himself drawn as by a spell to murder his victim 
because he had thought of her money and the pleasures it might 
bring him, till the feeling possessed his brain that hurls the game- 
ster to ruin. The victims of such agency are like the soldier ot 
the Rio Grande, who, both legs shot off and his life-blood rushing 
out with every pulse, replied serenely to his pitying comrades 
that " he had now that for which the soldier enlisted." The end 
of the drama is not in this world, and the fiction which rounds off 
the whole to harmony and felicity before the curtain falls, sins 
against truth, and deludes the reader. The Nelsons of the hu- 
man race are all the more exposed to the assaults of fate that they 
are decorated with the badges of well-earned glory. Who, but 
feels as they fall in death, or rise again to a mutilated existence, 
that the end is not yet ? Who, that thinks, but must feel that the 
recompense is, where Brown places it, in the accumulation of 
mental treasure, in the severe assay by fire that leaves the gold 
pure to be used sometime — somewhere. 

Brown, man of the brooding eye, the teeming brain, the deep 
and fervent heart ; if thy country prize thee not and has almost 
lost thee out of sight, it is that her heart is made shallow and 
cold, her eye dim, by the pomp of circumstance, the love of gross 
outward gain. She cannot long continue thus, for it takes a great 
deal of soul to keep a huge body from disease and dissolution. 
As there is more soul thou wilt be more sought, and many will 
yet sit down with thy Constantia to the meal and water on which 
28 



326 PAPERS ON LITERATURE AND AUT. 

she sustained her full and thoughtful existence, who could not en- 
dure the ennui of aldermanic dinners, or find any relish in the 
imitation of French cookery. To-day many will read the words, 
and some have a cup large enough to receive the spirit, before it 
>s lost in the sand on which their feet are planted. 

Brown's high standard of the delights of intellectual commu- 
nion and of friendship correspond with the fondest hopes of early 
days. But in the relations of real life, at present, there is rarely 
more than one of the parties ready for such intercourse as he de- 
scribes. On the one side there will be dryness, want of percep- 
tion or variety, a stupidity unable to appreciate life's richest boon 
when offered to its grasp, and the finer nature is doomed to re- 
trace its steps, unhappy as those who having force to raise a spirit 
cannot retain or make it substantial, and stretch out their arms 
only to bring them back empty to the breast. 



POEMS. By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow; with Illustrations by 
D. Huntington. Philadelphia ; Carey & Hart, Chesnut-st. 1845. 

Poetry is not a superhuman or supernatural gift. It is, on 
the contrary, the fullest and therefore most completely natural 
expression of what is human. It is that of which the rudiments lie 
in every human breast, but developed to a more complete existence 
than the obstructions of daily life permit, clothed in an adequate 
form, domesticated in nature by the use of apt images, the per- 
ception of grand analogies, and set to the music of the spheres 
for the delight of all who have ears to hear. We have uttered 
these remarks, which may, to many of our readers, seem truisms, 
for the sake of showing that our definition of poetry is large 
enough to include all kinds of excellence. It includes not only 
the great bards, but the humblest minstrels. The great bards 



AMERICAN LITERATURE. 327 

bring to light the more concealed treasures, gems which centuries 
have been employed in forming and which it is their office to re- 
veal, polish, and set for the royal purposes of man ; the wander- 
ing minstrel with his lighter but beautiful office calls the attention 
of men to the meaning of the flowers, which also is hidden from 
the careless eye, though they have grown and bloomed in full 
sight of all who chose to look. All the poets are the priests of 
Nature, though the greatest are also the prophets of the manhood 
of man. For, when fully grown, the life of man must be all 
poetry ; each of his thoughts will be a key to the treasures of 
the universe ; each of his acts a revelation of beauty, his lan- 
guage will be music, and his habitual presence will overflow 
with more energy and inspire with a nobler rapture than do the 
fullest strains of lyric poetry now. 

Meanwhile we need poets ; men more awakened to the won- 
ders of life, and gifted more or less with a power to express what 
they see, and to all who possess, in any degree, those requisites 
we offer and we owe welcome and tribute, whether the place of 
their song be in the Pantheon, from which issue the grand de- 
crees of immortal thought, or by the fireside, where hearts need 
kindling and eyes need clarifying by occasional drops of nectar 
in their tea. 

But this — this alone we claim, and can welcome none who 
cannot present this title to our hearing ; that the vision be genu- 
ine, the expression spontaneous. No imposition upon our young 
fellow citizens of pinchbeck for gold ! they must have the true 
article, and pay the due intellectual price, or they will wake 
from a life-long dream of folly to find themselves beggars. 

And never was a time when satirists were more needed to 
scourge from Parnassus the magpies who are devouring the food 
scattered there for the singing birds. There will always be a 
good deal of mock poetry in the market with the genuine ; it 
grows up naturally as tares among the wheat, and, while there 



328 PAPERS ON LITERATURE AND ART. 

is a fair proportion preserved, we abstain from severe weeding 
lest the two come up together ; but when the tares have almost 
usurped the field, it is time to begin and see if the field cannot 
be freed from them and made ready for a new seed-time. 

The rules of versification are now understood and used by 
those who have never entered into that soul from which metres 
grow as acorns from the oak, shapes as characteristic of the 
parent tree, containing in like manner germs of limitless life for 
the future. And as to the substance of these jingling rhymes, 
and dragging, stumbling rhythms, we might tell of bombast, or 
still worse, an affected simplicity, sickly sentiment, or borrowed 
dignity ; but it is sufficient to comprise all in this one censure. 
The writers did not write because they felt obliged to relieve 
themselves of the swelling thought within, but as an elegant 
exercise which may win them rank and reputation above the 
crowd. Their lamp is not lit by the sacred and inevitable light- 
ning from above, but carefully fed by their own will to be seen 
of men. 

There are very few now rhyming in England, not obnoxious 
to this censure, still fewer in our America. For such no laurel 
blooms. May the friendly poppy soon crown them and grant us 
stillness to hear the silver tones of genuine music, for, if such 
there be, they are at present almost stifled by these fifes and 
gongs. 

Yet there is a middle class, composed of men of little original 
poetic power, but of much poetic taste and sensibility, whom we 
would not wish to have silenced. They do no harm, but much 
good, (if only their minds are not confounded with those of a higher 
class,) by educating in others the faculties dominant in them, 
selves. In this class we place the writer at present before us. 

We must confess to a coolness towards Mr. Longfellow, in 
consequence of the exaggerated praises that have been bestowed 
upon him. When we see a oerson of moderate powers receive 



AMERICAN LITERATURE. 329 

honours which should be reserved for the highest, we feel some, 
what like assailing him and taking from him the crown which 
should be reserved for grander brows. And yet this is, perhaps, 
ungenerous. It may be that the management of publishers, the 
hyperbole of paid or undiscerning reviewers, or some accidental 
cause which gives a temporary interest to productions beyond 
what they would permanently command, have raised such an one 
to a place as much above his wishes as his claims, and which he 
would rejoice, with honourable modesty, to vacate at the approach 
of one worthier. We the more readily believe this of Mr. Long- 
fellow, as one so sensible to the beauties of other writers and so 
largely indebted to them, must know his own comparative rank 
better than his readers have known it for him. 

And yet so much adulation is dangerous. Mr. Longfellow, so 
lauded on all hands — now able to collect his poems which have 
circulated so widely in previous editions, and been paid for so 
handsomely by the handsomest annuals, in this beautiful volume, 
illustrated by one of the most distinguished of our younger artists 
— has found a flatterer in that very artist. The portrait which 
adorns this volume is not merely flattered or idealized, but there is 
an attempt at adorning it by expression thrown into the eyes with 
just that which the original does not possess, whether in face or 
mind. We have often seen faces whose usually coarse and 
heavy lineaments were harmonized at times into beauty by the 
light that rises from the soul into the eyes. The intention Na- 
ture had with regard to the face and its wearer, usually eclipsed 
beneath bad habits or a bad education, is then disclosed, and we 
see what hopes Death has in store for that soul. But here the 
enthusiasm thrown into the eyes only makes the rest of the face 
look more weak, and the idea suggested is the anomalous one of 
a dandy Pindar. 

Such is not the case with Mr. Longfellow himself. He is 
never a Pindar, though he is sometimes a dandy even in the 
28* 



330 PAPERS ON LITERATURE AND ART. 

clean and elegantly ornamented streets and trim gardens of hi* 
verse. But he is still more a man of cultivated taste, delicate 
though not deep feeling, and some, though not much, poetic force 

Mr. Longfellow has been accused of plagiarism. We have 
been surprised that any one should have been anxious to fasten 
special charges of this kind upon him, when we had supposed it 
so obvious that the greater part of his mental stores were derived 
from the works of others. He has no style of his own growing 
out of his own experiences and observations of nature. Nature 
with him, whether human or external, is always seen through the 
windows of literature. There are in his poems sweet and tender 
passages descriptive of his personal feelings, but very few show- 
ing him as an observer, at first hand, of the passions within, or 
the landscape without. 

This want of the free breath of nature, this perpetual borrow- 
ing of imagery, this excessive, because superficial, culture which 
he has derived from an acquaintance with the elegant literature 
of many nations and men out of proportion to the experience of 
life within himself, prevent Mr. Longfellow's verses from ever 
being a true refreshment to ourselves. He says in one of his 
most graceful verses : 

From the cool cisterns of the midnight air 

My spirit drank repose ; 
The fountain of perpetual peace flows there, 

From those deep cisterns flows. 

Now this is just what we cannot get from Mr. Longfellow. No 
solitude of the mind reveals to us the deep cisterns. 

Let us take, for example of what we do not like, one of his 
worst pieces, the Prelude to the Voices of the Night — 

Beneath some patriarchal tree 
I lay upon the ground ; 



AMERICAN LITERATURE. 331 

His hoary arms uplifted be, 
And all the broad leaves over me 
Clapped their little hands in glee 
With one continuous sound. 

What an unpleasant mixture of images ! Such never rose m 
a man's mind, as he lay on the ground and looked up to the tree 
above him. The true poetry for this stanza would be to give us 
an image of what was in the writer's mind as he lay there and 
looked up. But this idea of the leaves clapping their little hands 
with glee is taken out of some book ; or, at any rate, is a book 
thought, and not one that came in the place, and jars entirely with 
what is said of the tree uplifting its hoary arms. Then take this 
other stanza from a man whose mind should have grown up in 
familiarity with the American genius loci. 

Therefore at Pentecost, which brings 

The Spring clothed like a bride, 
When nestling buds unfold their wings, 
And bishop's caps have golden rings, 
Musing upon many things, 

I sought the woodlands wide. 

Musing upon many things — ay ! and upon many books too, or 
we should have nothing of Pentecost or bishop's caps with their 
golden rings. For ourselves, we have not the least idea what 
bishop's caps are ; — are they flowers ? — or what ? Truly, the 
schoolmaster was abroad in the woodlands that day ! As to the 
conceit of the wings of the buds, it is a false image, because one 
that cannot be carried out. Such will not be found in the poems 
of poets ; with such the imagination is all compact, and their 
works are not dead mosaics, with substance inserted merely be- 
cause pretty, but living growths, homogeneous and satisfactory 
throughout. 

Such instances could be adduced every where throughout the 
poems, depriving us of any clear pleasure from any one piece, 
and placing his poems beside such as those of Bryant in the same 



332 PAPERS ON LITERATURE 4.ND ART. 

light as that of the prettiest made shell, beside those whose every 
line and hue tells a history of the action of winds and waves and 
the secrets of one class of organizations. 

But, do we, therefore esteem Mr. Longfellow a wilful or con- 
scious plagiarist ? By no means. It is his misfortune that other 
men's thoughts are so continually in his head as to overshadow 
his own. The order of fine development is for the mind the same 
as the body, to take in just so much food as will sustain it in its 
exercise and assimilate with its growth. If it is so assimilated — 
if it becomes a part of the skin, hair and eyes of the man, it is his 
own, no matter whether he pick it up in the woods, or borrow 
from the dish of a fellow man, or receive it in the form of manna 
direct from Heaven. " Do you ask the genius," said Goethe, " to 
give an account of what he has taken from others. As well 
demand of the hero an account of the beeves and loaves which 
have nourished him to such martial stature." 

But Mr. Longfellow presents us, not with a new product in 
which all the old varieties are melted into a fresh form, but rather 
with a tastefully arranged Museum, between whose glass cases 
are interspersed neatly potted rose trees, geraniums and hyacinths, 
grown by himself with aid of in-door heat. Still we must acquit 
him of being a willing or conscious plagiarist. Some objects in 
the collection are his own ; as to the rest, he has the merit of 
appreciation, and a re-arrangement, not always judicious, but the 
result of feeling on his part. • 

Such works as Mr. Longfellow's we consider injurious only if 
allowed to usurp the place of better things. The reason of his 
being overrated here, is because through his works breathes the 
air of other lands, with whose products the public at large is but 
little acquainted. He will do his office, and a desirable one, of 
promoting a taste for the literature of these lands before his 
readers are aware of it. As a translator he shows the same 
qualities as in his own writings ; what is forcible and compact 



AMERICAN LITERATURE. 333 

he does not render adequately ; grace and sentiment he appre- 
ciates and reproduces. Twenty years hence, when he stands upon 
his own merits, he will rank as a writer of elegant, if not always 
accurate taste, of great imitative power, and occasional felicity 
in an original way, where his feelings are really stirred. He 
has touched no subject where he has not done somewhat that is 
pleasing, though also his poems are much marred by ambitious 
failings. As instances of his best manner we would mention 
" The Reaper and the Flowers," " Lines to the Planet Mars," 
" A Gleam of Sunshine," and " The Village Blacksmith." His 
two ballads are excellent imitations, yet in them is no spark of 
fire. In " Nuremberg" are charming passages. Indeed, the 
whole poem is one of the happiest specimens of Mr. L.'s poetic 
feeling, taste and tact in making up a rosary of topics and images. 
Thinking it may be less known than most of the poems we 
will quote it. The engraving which accompanies it of the rich 
old architecture is a fine gloss on its contents. 
NUREMBERG. 
In the valley of the Pegnitz, where across broad meadow lands 
Rise the blue Franconian mountains, Nuremberg, the ancient, stands. 
Quaint old town of toil and traffic — quaint old town of art and song — 
Memories haunt thy pointed gables, like the rooks that round them throng; 
Memories of the Middle Ages, when the Emperors, rough and bold, 
Had their dwelling in thy castle, time defying, centuries old ; 
And thy brave and thrifty burghers boasted in their uncouth rhyme, 
That their great imperial city stretched its hand through every clime. 
In the court-yard of the castle, bound with many an iron band, 
Stands the mighty linden, planted by Queen Cunigunda's hand. 
On the square the oriel window, where in old heroic days, 
Sat the poet Melchior, singing Kaiser Maximilian's praise. 
Every where I see around me rise the wondrous world of Art — 
Fountains wrought with richest sculpture, standing in the common mart; 
And above cathedral doorways, saints and bishops carved in stone, 
By a former age commissioned as apostles to our own. 
In the church of sainted Sebald sleeps enshrined his holy dust, 
And in bronze the Twelve Apostles guard from age to age their trust ; 



334 PAPERS ON LITERATURE AND ART. 

In the church of sainted Lawrence stands a Pix of sculpture rare, 

Like the foamy sheaf of fountains, rising through the painted air. 

Here, when Art was still Religion, with a simple reverent heart, 

Lived and laboured Albert Durer, the Evangelist of Art; 

Hence in silence and in sorrow, toiling still with busy hand, 

Like an emigrant he wandered, seeking for the Better Land. 

Emigravit is the inscription on the tomb-stone where he lies ; 

Dead he is not, but departed, for the Artist never dies. 

Fairer seems the ancient city, and the sunshine seems more fair, 

That he once has trod its pavement — that he once has breathed its air ! 

Through those streets so broad and stately, these obscure and dismal lanes, 

Walked of yore the Master-singers, chanting rude poetic strains. 

Prom remote and sunless suburbs came they to the friendly guild, 

Building nests in Fame's great temple, as in spouts the swallows build. 

As the weaver plied the shuttle, wove he to the mystic rhyme, 

And the smith his iron measures hammered to the anvil's chime; 

Thanking God, whose boundless wisdom makes the flowers of poesy bloom 

In the forge's dust and cinders — in the tissues of the loom. 

Here Hans Sachs, the cobbler-poet, laureate of the gentle craft, 

Wisest of the Twelve Wise Masters, in huge folios sang and laughed. 

But his house is now an ale-house, with a nicely sanded floor, 

And a garland in the window, and his face above the door ; 

Painted by some humble artist, as in Adam Paschman's song, 

As the old man grey and dove-like, with his great beard white and long. 

And at night the swarth mechanic comes to drown his cank and care, 

Quaffing ale from pewter tankards in the master's antique chair. 

Vanished is the ancient splendour, and before my dreamy eye 

Wave these mingling shapes and figures, like a faded tapestry. 

Not thy Councils, not thy Kaisers, win for thee the world's regard ; 

But thy painter, Albert Durer, and Hans Sachs, thy cobbler bard. 

Thus, oh, Nuremberg ! a wanderer from a region far away, 

As he paced thy streets and court-yards, sang in thought his careless lay; 

Gathering from the pavement's crevice, as a flow'ret of the soil, 

The nobility of labour, the long pedigree of toil. 

This image of the thought gathered like a flower from the 
crevice of the pavement, is truly natural and poetical. 

Here is another image which came into the mind of the writer 
as he looked at the subject of his verse, and which pleases accor- 



AMERICAN LITERATURE. 335 

dingly. It is from one of the new poems, addressed to Driving 
Cloud, " chief of the mighty Omahaws." 

Wrapt in thy scarlet blanket I see thee stalk through the city's 
Narrow and populous streets, as once by the margin of rivers 
Stalked those birds unknown, that have left us only their fuot-prints. 
What, in a few short years, will remain of thy race but the foot-printa 1 

Here is another very graceful and natural simile : 

A feeling of sadness and longing, 

That is not akin to pain, 
And resembles sorrow only 

As the mist resembles rain. 

Another — 

I will forget her ! All dear recollections, 
Pressed in my heart like flowers within a book, 
Shall be torn out and scattered to the winds. 

The drama from which this is taken is an elegant exercise of 
the pen, after the fashion of the best models. Plans, figures, all 
are academical. It is a faint reflex of the actions and passions 
of men, tame in the conduct and lifeless in the characters, but 
not heavy, and containing good meditative passages. 

And now farewell to the handsome book, with its Precioso? 
and Preciosas, its Vikings and knights, and cavaliers, its flowers 
of all climes, and wild flowers of none. We have not wished to 
depreciate these writings below their current value more than 
truth absolutely demands. We have not forgotten that, if a man 
cannot himself sit at the feet of the muse, it is much if he prizes 
those who may ; it makes him a teacher to the people. Neither 
have we forgotten that Mr. Longfellow has a genuine respect for 
his pen, never writes carelessly, nor when he does not wish to, 
nor for money alone. Nor are we intolerant to those who prize 
hot-house bouquets beyond all the free beauty of nature ; that 
helps the gardener and has its uses. But still let us not forget— 
Excelsior ! ! 



SWEDENBORGIANISM. 



NOBLE'S APPEAL in Behalf op the Views held by the New (or Swe- 

denborgian) Church. Second edition, 1845. Boston: T. H. Carter & 

Co. — Otis Clapp. 
ESSAYS by Theophilus Parsons. Boston : Otis Clapp, School-st. 1845. 
THE CORNER STONE op the New Jerusalem, by B. F. Barrett. New 

York : Bartlett and Wellford, Astor House ; John Allen, 139 Nassau-street, 

1845. 

The claim to be the New Church, or peculiarly the founders 
of a New Jerusalem, is like exclusive claims to the title of Or- 
thodox. We have no sympathy with it. We believe that all 
kinds of inspiration and forms of faith have been made by the 
power that rules the world to cooperate in the development of 
mental life with a view to the eventual elucidation of truth. 
That ruling power overrules the vanity of men, or just the con- 
trary would ensue. For men love the letter that killeth better 
than the spirit that continually refreshes its immortal life. They 
wish to compress truth into a nut-shell that it may be grasped in 
the hand. They wish to feel sure that they and theirs hold it 
all. In vain ! More incompressible than light, it flows forth anew, 
and, while the preacher was finishing the sermon in which he 
proclaimed that now the last and greatest dispensation had arrived, 
and that all the truth could henceforward be encased within the 
walls of a church — it has already sped its way to unnumbered 
zones, planted in myriad new-born souls the seeds of life, and 
wakened in myriads more a pulse that cannot be tamed down by 
dogma or doctrine, but must always throb at each new revela- 
tion of the glories of the infinite. 

(336) 



SWEDENBORGIANISM. 337 

Were there, indeed, a catholic church which should be based 
on a recognition of universal truths, simple as that proposed by 
Jesus, Love God with all thy soul and strength, thy neighbour as 
thyself; such a church would include all sincere motions of the 
spirit, and sects and opinions would no more war with one an- 
other than roses in the garden, but, like them, all contentedly 
grace a common soil and render their tribute to one heaven. 

Then we should hear no more of the church, creed, or teacher, 
but of a church, creed or teacher. Each man would adopt content- 
edly what best answered his spiritual wants, lovingly granting 
the same liberality to others. Then the variety of opinions would 
produce its natural benefit of testing and animating each mind 
in its natural tendency, without those bitter accompaniments 
that make theological systems so repulsive to religious minds. 

Religious tolerance will, probably, come last in the progress 
of civilization, for, in those interests which search deepest, the 
weeds of prejudice have struck root deepest, too. But it will 
come ; for we see its practicability sometimes proved in the in- 
tercourse between friends ; and so shall it be between parties 
and groups of men, when intercourse shall have been placed on 
the same basis of mutual good-will and respect for one another's 
rights. Then those ugliest taints of spiritual arrogance and 
vanity shall begin to be washed out of this world. 

As with all other cases, so with this ! We believe in no new 
church par excellence. Swedenborgians are to us those taught 
of Swedenborg, a great, a learned, a wise, a good man — also one 
instructed by direct influx from a higher sphere, but one of a 
constellation, and needing the aid of congenial influences to con- 
firm and illustrate his. 

That the body of his followers do not constitute a catholic 
church would be sufficiently proved to us by the fact, asserted 
by all who come in contact with them, that they attach an ex- 
aggerated importance to the teachings of their master, which 
29 



338 PAPERS ON LITERATURE AND ART. 

shuts them in a great measure from the benefit of other teach- 
ings, and threatens to make them bigots, though of such mild 
strain as shows them to be the followers of one singularly mild 
and magnanimous. 

For Svvedenborg was one who, though entirely open and stead- 
fast in the maintenance of his pretensions, knew how to live with 
kings, nobles, clergy, and people, without being the object of 
persecution to any. They viewed with respect, if not with con- 
fidence, his conviction that he was " in fellowship with angels.' 
They knew the deep discipline and wide attainments of his 
mind. They saw that he forced his convictions on no one, but 
relied for their diffusion upon spiritual laws. They saw that he 
made none but an incidental use of his miraculous powers, and 
that it was not to him a matter of any consequence whether 
others recognized them or not ; for he knew that those whom truth 
does not reach by its spiritual efficacy cannot be made to believe 
by dint of signs and wonders. 

Thus his life was, for its steady growth, its soft majesty, and 
exhibition of a faith never fierce and sparkling, never dim, a 
happy omen for the age. Thus gently and gradually may new 
organizations of great principles be effected now ! May it prove 
that, at least in the more advanced part of the world, revolutions 
may be effected without painful throes ! Such a life was in corres- 
pondence with his system, which is one of gradation and harmony. 

1 have used the word system, and yet it is not the right one. 
The works of Swedenborg contain intimations of a system, but 
it is one whose full development must be coincident with the 
perfection of all things. Some great rules he proffers, some 
ways of thinking opens ; we have centre and radii, but the cir- 
cumference is not closed in. 

This is to us the greatness of Swedenborg and the ground of 
our pleasure in his works, that in them we can expatiate freely ; 
there is room enough. We can take what does us good, and de- 



SWEDEN BORGIANISM. 339 

cline the rest : we may delight in his theory of forms or of cor. 
respondences, may be aided in tracing the hidden meanings of 
symbols, or animated by the poetic energy of his vision, without 
being bound down to things that seem to us unimportant. We 
can converse with him without acquiescing in the declaration 
that all angels have, at some time, been men, or the like, which 
seem to us groundless and arbitrary. It is not so with his follow, 
ers ; they are like the majority of disciples ; if you do not 
know the master before knowing them, his true face will be 
hidden from you forever. Thoir minds being smaller, they lay 
the chief stress on what is least important in his instructions, 
and do not know how to express the best even of what they have 
received ; being too mighty for them to embrace they cannot 
reproduce it, though it acts upon their lives. 

So it is with all the books at the head of this notice. Noble's 
Appeal has been, we understand, a famous book among the fol- 
lowers of Swedenborg. We did not find it sufficiently interesting 
to give it a thorough reading. It is addressed to those who object 
to Swedenborg from a low platform. It arrays arguments and 
evidences with skill, and in a good spirit, and contains particu- 
lars, as to matters of fact, that will interest those who have not 
previously met with them. It quotes Swedenborg's letter to Mr. 
Hartley, written with such a beautiful dignity, and giving so 
distinct an idea of the personal presence of the writer, also the 
letter of Kant with regard to one of Swedenborg's revelations as 
to a matter of fact, (the fire at Stockholm.) The letter has been 
quoted a hundred times before, but it always remains interesting 
to see the genuine candour with which a great mind can treat one 
so opposite to its own, and pleasant to see how far such an one is 
above the necessity felt by lesser minds of denying what they 
cannot explain. 

We have often been asked what we thought of these preten- 
sions in Swedenborg. We think, in the first place, none can 



340 PAPERS ON LITERATURE AND ART. 

doubt his sincerity, and in few cases could we have so little retu 
son to doubt the correctness of perception in the seer. Sweden- 
borg must be seen by any one acquainted with his mind to be in 
an extraordinary degree above the chance of self-delusion. As 
to the facts, the evidence which satisfied Kant might satisfy most 
people, one would suppose. As to the power of holding inter- 
course with spirits enfranchised from our present sphere, we see 
no reason why it should not exist, and do see much reason why 
it should rarely be developed, but none why it should not some- 
times. Those spirits are, we all believe, existent somewhere, 
somehow, and there seems to be no good reason why a person in 
spiritual nearness to them, whom such intercourse cannot agitate, 
or engross so that he cannot walk steadily in his present path, 
should not enjoy it, when of use to him. But it seems to us that 
the stress laid upon such a fact, for or against, argues a want of 
faith in the immortality of souls. Why should those who be- 
lieve in this care so very much whether one can rise from the 
dead to converse with his friend ! We see that Swedenborg 
esteemed it merely as a condition of a certain state of mind, a 
great privilege as enlarging his means of attaining knowledge 
and holiness. For ourselves, it is not as a seer of ghosts,- but as 
a seer of truths that Swedenborg interests us. 

But to return to the books. They show the gradual extension 
of the influence of Swedenborg, and the nature of its effects. In 
Mr. Parsons's case they are good. His mind seems to have been 
expanded and strengthened by it. Parts of his book we have 
read with pleasure, and think it should be a popular one among 
the more thoughtful portion of the great reading public. As to 
Mr. Barrett's discourse, the basis of Swedenborgianism had 
seemed to us broader than such a corner stone would lead us to 
suppose. Generally, we would say, read Swedenborg himself 
before you touch his interpreters. In him you will find a great 
life, far sight, and a celestial spirit. You will be led to think, 



AMERICAN LITERATURE. 341 

and great and tender sympathies be gratified in you. Then, if 
you wish to prop yourself by doctrines taken from his works, 
and hasten to practical conclusions, you can do so for yourself, 
and from Swedenborg himself learn how to be a Swedenborgian t 
but wc hope he may teach you rather to become an earnest 
student of truth as he was, for it is so, and not by crying, " Lord. 
Lord," that you can know him or any other great and excelling 
mind. But, whatever the result be, read him first, and then you 
may profit by comparison of your own observations with those 
of other scholars ; but, if you begin with them, it is, even 
more than usual, in such cases, the blind leading the blind. 
Confucius had among the host one perfect disciple ; others 
have been, in some degree, thus favoured, but Swede.iborg 
had none such, and he is not far enough off yet for the 
common sense of mankind to have marked out what is of lead- 
ing importance in his thoughts. Therefore, search for your- 
selves j it is a mighty maze, but not without a plan, and the 
report of all guide-books, thus far, is partial. 
29* 



METHODISM AT THE FOUNTAIN. 



THE LIFE OF CHARLES WESLEY. Comprising a Review of his Poetry 
and Sketches of the Rise and Progress of Methodism, with Notices of Con- 
temporary Events and Characters. By Thomas Jackson. New- York, 1844. 

This is a reprint of a London work, although it does not so ap- 
pear on the title-page. We have lately read it in connection with 
another very interesting book, Clarke's " Memoirs of the Wesley 
Family," and have been led to far deeper interest in this great 
stream of religious thought and feeling by a nearer approach to 
its fountain-head. 

The world at large takes its impression of the Wesleys from 
Southey. A humbler historian has scarce a chance to be heard 
beside one so rich in learning and talent. Yet the Methodists 
themselves are not satisfied with this account of their revered 
shepherds, which, though fair in the intention, and tolerably fair 
in the arrangement of facts, fails to convey the true spiritual sense, 
and does not, to the flock, present a picture of the fields where 
they were first satisfied with the food of immortals. 

A better likeness, if not so ably painted, may indeed be found 
in chronicles written by the disciples of these great and excellent 
men, who, as characters full of affection no less than intellect, 
need also to be affectionately, no less than intellectually, discern- 
ed, in order to a true representation of their deeds and their influ- 
ence. 

The books we have named, and others which relate to the Wes- 
leys, are extremely interesting, apart from a consideration of the 

(342) 



METHODISM AT THE FOUNTAIN. 343 

men and what their lives were leading to, from the various and 
important documents they furnish, illustrative of the symptoms 
and obscurer meanings of their times. 

In the account of the family life of the rectory of Epworth, 
where John and Charles Wesley passed their boyish years, we 
find a great deal that is valuable condensed. And we look upon 
the picture of home and its government with tenfold interest, be- 
cause the founders of the Methodist church inherited, in a straight 
line, the gifts of the Spirit through their parentage, rather than 
were taught by angels that visited them now and then unawares, 
or received the mantle from some prophet who was passing by, as 
we more commonly find to have been the case in the histories of 
distinguished men. This is delightful ; for we long to see parent 
and child linked to one another by natural piety — kindred in mind 
no less than by blood. 

The father of the Wesleys was worthy so to be in this, that he 
was a fervent lover of the right, though often narrow and hasty 
in his conceptions of it. He was scarce less, however, by nature 
a lover of having his own will. The same strong will was tern- 
pered in the larger and deeper character of his son John, to that 
energy and steadfastness of purpose which enabled him to carry 
out a plan of operations so extensive and exhausting through so 
long a series of years and into extreme old age. 

This wilfulness, and the disposition to tyranny which attends it, 
the senior Mr. Wesley showed on the famous occasion when he 
abandoned his wife because her conscience forbade her to assent 
to his prayers for the then reigning monarch, and was only saved 
from the consequences of his rash resolve by the accident of King 
William happening to die shortly after. Still more cruel, and this 
time fatal, was the conduct it induced in marrying one of his 
daughters, against her will and judgment, to a man whom she did 
not love, and who proved to be entirely unworthy of her. The 
sacrifice of this daughter, the fairest and brightest of his family, 



344 PAPERS ON LITERATURE AND ART. 

seems most strangely and wickedly wilful ; and it is impossible 
to read the. letter she addressed to him on the subject without great 
indignation against him, and sadness to see how, not long ago, the 
habit of authority and obedience could enable a man to dispense 
with the need and claim of genuine reverence. 

Yet he was, in the main, good, and his influence upon his chil . 
dren good, as he sincerely sought, and encouraged them to seek, 
the one thing needful. He was a father who would never fai 
to give noble advice in cases of conscience ; and his veneration 
for intellect and its culture was only inferior to that he cherished 
for piety. 

As has been generally the case, however, with superior men, 
the better part, both of inheritance and guidance, came from the 
mother. Mrs. Susannah Wesley was, as things go in our puny 
society, an extraordinary woman, though, we must believe, pre- 
cisely what would be, in a healthy and natural order, the ordinary 
type of woman. She was endowed with a large understanding, 
the power of reasoning and the love of truth, animated by warm 
and generous affections. Her mental development began very 
early, so that, at the age of thirteen, she had made, and on 
well-considered grounds, a change in her form of theological 
faith. The progress so early begun, did not, on that account, 
stop early, but was continued, and with increasing energy, 
throughout her whole life. The manifold duties of a toilsome 
and difficult outward existence, (of which it is enough to say 
that she was the mother of nineteen children, many of whom 
lived to grow up, the wife of a poor man, and one whose temper 
drew round him many difficulties) only varied and furthered her 
improvement by the manifold occasions thus afforded for thought 
and action. In her prime she was the teacher and cheerful 
companion of her children, in declining years at once their 
revered monitor and willing pupil. Indeed, she was one that 
never ceased to grow while she stayed upon this earth, nor to 



METHODISM AT THE FOUNTAIN. 345 

foster and sustain the growth of all around her. Even the little 
pedantries of her educational discipline did more good than harm, 
as they were full of her own individuality. And it would seem 
to be from the bias thus given that her sons acquired the tendency 
which, even in early years, drew to them the name of Methodists. 
How much too may not be inferred from the revival effected by 
her in her husband's parish during his absence, in so beautiful 
and simple a manner ! How must impressions of that period 
have been stamped on the minds of her children, sure to recur 
and aid them whenever on similar occasions the universal voice 
should summon them to deviate from the usual and prescribed 
course, and the pure sympathies awakened by their efforts be 
the sole confirmation of their wisdom ! How wisely and temper- 
ately she defends herself to her husband, winning the assent even 
of that somewhat narrow and arbitrary mind ! With wisdom, 
even so tempered by a heart of charity and forbearance, did John 
and Charles Wesley maintain against the world of customs the 
bold and original methods which the deep emotions of their souls 
dictated to them, and won its assent ; at least we think there is 
no sect on which the others collectively look with as little intoler- 
ance as on Methodism. 

(It may be remarked par parenihese that the biographer, Mr. 
Jackson, who shows himself, in many ways, to be a weak man, is 
rather shocked at Mrs. Wesley on those occasions where she 
shows so much character. His opinions however, are of no con- 
sequence, as he fairly lays before the reader the letters and other 
original documents which enable him to judge of this remark- 
able woman, and of her children, several of them no less remark- 
able — As we shall not again advert to Mr. Jackson, but only 
consider him as a cup in which we have received the juice of 
the Wesleyan grape, we will mention here his strange use of 
the work superior in ways such as these : " This book will be 



346 PAPERS ON LITERATURE AND ART. 

read with superior interest" ; Lady met him with superior 

sympathy," &c.) 

The children of + .he Epworth Rectory were, almost without 
exception, of more than usual dignity and richness of mind and 
character. They all were aspiring, and looked upon a human 
life chiefly as affording materials to fashion a temple for the ser- 
vice of God. But, though alike in the main purpose and ten- 
dency, their individualities were kept distinct in the most charming 
freshness. A noble sincerity and mutual respect marked all 
their intercourse, nor were the weaker characters unduly influ- 
enced by the stronger. In proportion to their mutual affection 
and reverence was their sincerity and decision in opposing one 
another, whenever necessary ; so that they were friendly indeed. 
The same real love which made Charles Wesley write on a 
letter assailing John, " Left unanswered by John Wesley's 
brother," made himself the most earnest and direct of critics 
when he saw or thought he saw any need of criticism or moni- 
tion. 

The children of this family shared, many of them, the lyric 
vein, though only in Charles did it exhibit itself with much 
beauty. It is very interesting to see the same gift taking another 
form in the genius for Music of his two sons. The record kept 
by him of the early stages of development in them is full of 
valuable suggestions, and we hope some time to make use of them 
in another connection. It is pleasant to see how the sympathies 
of the father melted away the crust of habitual opinions. It 
was far otherwise with the uncle, where the glow of sympathy 
was less warm. 

The life of the two brothers was full of poetic beauty in its 
incidents and conduct. The snatching of the child, destined to 
purposes so important, " as a brand from the burning ;" their 
college life ; Charles's unwillingness to be " made a saint of all 
at once ;" and his subsequent yielding to the fervour of his 



METHODISM AT THE FOUNTAIN. 347 

Drother's spirit, — John Wesley's refusal to bind himself to what 
seemed at the time a good work, even for his mother's sake, 
because the Spirit within, if it did not positively forbid, yet did 
not say " I am ready," thus sacrificing the outward to the inward 
duty with a clear decision rare even in great minds, — their voyage 
to America, intercourse with the Moravians and Indians, — the 
trials to which their young simplicity and credulity there subjected 
them, but from which they were brought out safe by obeying the 
voice of Conscience, —their relations with Law, Bohler and Count 
Zinzendorf, — the manner of their marriages, their relations wilh 
one another and with Whitfield, — all are narrated with candour 
and fullness, and all afford subjects for much and valuable 
thought. As the mind of John Wesley was of stronger mould 
and in advance of his brother's, difference of opinion sometimes 
arose between them, and Charles, full of feeling, protested in a 
way calculated to grieve even a noble friend. — His conduct with 
regard to his brother's marriage seems to have been perfectly 
unjustifiable, and his heart to have remained strangely untaught 
by what he had felt and borne at the time of his own. Even 
after death his prejudices acted to prevent his mortal remains 
from resting beside those of his brother. In all those cases where 
John Wesley found his judgment interfered with, his affections 
disappointed or even deeply wounded, as was certainly the case 
in the breaking off" his first engagement, while he felt the superior 
largeness and clearness of his own views, as he did in exercising 
the power of ordination, and when he wrote on the disappointment 
of his wish that the body of his brother should be interred in his 
own cemetery, because it was not regularly " consecrated 
earth ;" " That ground is as holy as any in England," still the 
heart of John Wesley was always right and noble ; still he 
looked at the motives of the friend, and could really say and 
wholly feel in the spirit of Christian love, "Be they forghen 
for they know not what they do." 



348 PAPERS ON LITERATURE AND ART. 

This same heart of Christian love was shown in the division 
that arose between the brothers and Whitfield ; and owing to 
this it was that division of opinion did not destroy unity cf spirit, 
design and influence in the efforts of these good men to make 
their fellows good also. " The threefold cord," as they loved to 
call it, remained firm through life, and the world saw in them 
one of the best fruits of the religious spirit, mutual reverence in 
conscientious difference. This rarest sight alone would have 
given them a claim to instruct the souls of men. 

We wish indeed that this spirit had been still better understood 
by them, and that, in ceasing to be the pupils of William Law, 
they had not felt obliged to denounce his mode of viewing re- 
ligious truth as " poisonous mysticism." It is human frailty 
that requires to react, thus violently, against that we have left 
behind. The divine spirit teaches better, shows that the child 
was father of the man, and that which we were before has pre 
pared us to be what we now are. 

One of the deepest thinkers of our time believes that the ex- 
aggerated importance which each man and each party attaches to 
the aims and ways which engage him or it, and the far more 
odious depreciation of all others, are needed to give sufficient 
impetus and steadiness to their action. He finds grand corres- 
pondence in the laws of matter with this view of the laws of mind 
to illustrate and sustain his belief. Yet the soul craves and 
feels herself fit for something better, a wisdom that shall look 
upon the myriad ways in which men seek their common end — the 
development and elevation of their natures, — with calmness, as 
the Eternal does. For ourselves, in an age where it is still the 
current fallacy that he who does not attach this exaggerated 
importance to some doctrinal way of viewing spiritual infinities, 
and the peculiar methods of some sect of enforcing them in prac- 
tice, has no religion, we see dawning here and there a light that 
predicts a better day — a day when sects and parties shall be 



METHODISM AT THE FOUNTAIN. 349 

regarded only as schools of thought and life, and while a man 
perfers one for his own instruction, he may yet believe it is more 
profitable for his brethren differently constituted to be in others. 
It will then be seen that God takes too good care of his children 
to suffer all truth to be confined to any one church establishment, 
age, or constellation of minds, and it will be not only assented to 
in words, but believed in soul, that the Laws and Prophets may 
be condensed, as Jesus said, into this simple law, " Love God 
with all thy soul, thy fellow-man as thyself;" and that he who 
is filled with this spirit and strives to express it in life, however 
narrow cut be his clerical coat, or distorting to outward objects, 
no less than disfiguring to himself, his theological spectacles, has 
not failed both to learn and to do some good in this earthly section 
of existence. When this much has once been granted ; when it 
is seen that the only true, the only Catholic Church, the Church 
whose communion, invisible to the outward eye, is shared by all 
spirits that seek earnestly to love God and serve Man, has its 
members in every land, in every Church, in every sect ; and 
that they who have not this, in whatever tone and form they cry 
out, " Lord, Lord," have in truth never known Him ; then may 
we hope for less narrowness and ignorance in the several sects, 
also, for all and each will learn of one another, and dwelling 
together in unity still preserve and unfold their life in individual 
distinctness. Such a platform we hope to see ascended by the 
men of this earth, of this or the coming age. At any rate, dis- 
engagement from present bonds, must lead to it, and thus we 
trust, the Wesleys have embraced William Law and found that 
his " poisonous mysticism" had its truth and its meaning also, 
while he rejoices that their minds, severing from his, took a dif- 
ferent bias and reached a different class for which his teachings 
were not adapted. And thus, passing from section to section of 
the truth, the circle shall be filled at last, and it shall be seen 
that each had need of the other and of all. 
30 



350 PAPERS ON LITERATURE AND ART. 

Charles and John Wesley seemed to fulfil toward their great 
foinily of disciples the offices commonly assigned to Woman and 
Man. Charles had a narrower, tamer, less reasoning mind, but 
great sweetness, tenderness, facility and lyric flow, " When suc- 
cessful in effecting the spiritual good of the most abject, his feel- 
ings rose to rapture." Soft pity fit. 3d his heart, and none seemed 
so near to him as the felon and the malefactor, because for none 
else was so much to be done. 

His habitual flow of sacred verse was like the course of a full 
fed stream. In extreme old age, his habits of composition are 
thus pleasingly described : 

"He rode every day (clothed for Winter, even in Summer,) a little horse, 
grey with age. When he mounted, if a subject struck him, he proceeded to ex- 
pand and put it in order. He would write a hymn thus given him on a card 
(kept for that purpose) with his pencil in short hand. Not unfrequently he has 
come to the house on the City road, and having left the pony in the garden in 
front, he would enter, crying out ' Pen and ink! pen and ink!' These being 
supplied, he wrote the hymn he had been composing. When this was done, he 
would look round on those present, and salute them with much kindness, ask 
after their health, give out a short hymn, and thus put all in mind of eternity. 
He was fond of that stanza upon these occasions, 

" There all the ship's company meet," &c 

His benign spirit is, we believe, gratified now by finding that 
company larger than he had dared to hope. 

The mind of John Wesley was more masculine ; he was more 
of a thinker and leader. He is spoken of as credulous, as hoping 
good of men naturally, and able to hope it again from those that 
had deceived him. This last is weakness unless allied with wise 
decision and force, generosity when it is thus tempered. To the 
character of John Wesley it imparted a persuasive nobleness, 
and halloweo. his earnestness with mercy. He had in a striking 
degree another of those balances between opposite forces which 
mark the great man He kept himself open to new inspirations, 
was bold in apprehending and quick in carrying them out. Yet 



METHODISM AT THE FOUNTAIN. 351 

with a resolve once taken he showed a steadiness of purpose be- 
yond what the timid scholars of tradition can conceive. 

In looking at the character of the two men, and the nature of 
their doctrine we well understand why their spirit has exercised 
bo vast a sway, especially with the poor, the unlearned and those 
who had none else to help them. They had truth enough 
and force enough to uplift the burdens of an army of poor pil- 
grims and send them on their way rejoicing. We should delight 
to string together, in our own fashion, a rosary of thoughts and 
anecdotes illustrative of their career and its consequences, but, 
since time and our limits in newspaper space forbid, cannot end 
better than by quoting their own verse, for they are of that select 
corps, " the forlorn hope of humanity," to whom shortcoming iu 
deeds has given no occasion to blush for the lofty scope of their 
words. 

" Who but the Holy Ghost can make 

A genuine gospel minister, 
A bishop bold to undertake 

Of precious souls the awful care » 
The Holy Ghost alone can move 

A sinner sinners to convert, 
Infuse the apostolic love 

And bless him with a pastor's heart" 



PART III. 

THE DRAMA 



30 * (353 



PREFACE BY THE TRANSLATOR. 



In presenting to the public this imperfect translation of a verj 
celebrated production of the first German writer, I hope for in- 
dulgence from those who are acquainted with the original. There 
a r e difficulties attending the translation of German works into 
English which might baffle one much more skilful in the use 
of the latter than myself. A great variety of compound words 
enable the German writer to give a degree of precision and 
delicacy of shading to his expressions nearly impracticable with 
the terse, the dignified, but by no means flexible English idiom. 
The rapid growth of German literature, the concurrence of so 
many master spirits, all at once fashioning the language into a 
medium for the communication of their thoughts, has brought it 
to a perfection which must gradually be impaired, as inferior 
minds mould and adapt it to their less noble uses. It may 
become better suited to certain kinds of light writing, but must 
lose its condensed power of expression, as the English has done. 

I may be allowed to quote Mr. Coleridge in apology for a 
somewhat paraphrastical translation, not as presuming to com- 
pare mine with his Wallenstein, but to show that this accom- 
plished writer deemed the rendering of the spirit, on the whole, 
more desirable than that of the letter. I would also shelter 

(355) 



356 TREFACE BY THE TRANSLATOR. 

myself in the shadow of the same illustrious name with regard 
to the broken and lengthened lines too frequent in my transla- 
tion. It is more difficult to polish a translation than an original 
work, since we are denied the liberty of retrenching or adding 
where the ear and taste cannot be satisfied. But there is no 
sufficient apology for imperfection. I can only hope by a candid 
acknowledgment of its existence to propitiate the critic, believing 
that no setting can utterly mar the lustre of such a gem, or make 
this perfect work of art unwelcome to the meditative few, or 
even to the tasteful many. 

The beautiful finish of style is lost, and in lieu of the many- 
toned lyre on which the poet originally melodized his inspired 
conceptions, a hollow-sounding reed is substituted. But the 
harmony with which the plot is developed, the nicely-adjusted 
contrasts between the characters, the beauty of composition, 
worthy the genius of ancient statuary, must still be perceptible. 

It is, I believe, a novelty to see the mind of a poet analyzed 
and portrayed by another, who, however, shared the inspiration 
only of his subject, saved from his weakness by that superb 
balance of character in which Goethe surpasses even Milton. 
This alone would give the piece before us a peculiar interest. 

The central situation of Tasso, the manner in which his com- 
panions draw him out, and are in turn drawn out by him, the 
mingled generosity and worldliness of the Realist Antonio, the 
mixture of taste, feeling, and unconscious selfishness in Alphon- 
so, the more delicate but not less decided painting of the two 
Leonoras, the gradual but irresistible force by which the catas- 
trophe is drawn down upon us, concur to make this drama a 
model of Art, that art which Gcethe worshipped ever after he 
had exhaled his mental boyhood in Werther. The following 



PEEFACE BY THE TRANSLATOR. 357 

remarks from an essay of A. W. Schlegel are probably new 
to the reader : " Gosthe has painted Tasso from a close study of 
his works. He has even made use of extracts from his poems. 
Thus the greater part of what Tasso says about the golden age 
is taken from the beautiful chorus in the first act of Aminta. 
Many such things are lost upon those who are not familiar with 
the poems of Tasso, though they may not be insensible to the 
exquisite delicacy and care with which the portrait is finished 
throughout. In the historical circumstances, Gosthe has pre- 
ferred the authority of the Abbe Serassi to the more generally 
consulted Manso. Serassi denies that the princess ever encour- 
aged Tasso to pass the bounds of deference. Generally it is 
dangerous to finish a real life by an invented catastrophe, as 
Schiller has done with regard to the Maid of Orleans ; but such 
clouds of doubt rest on portions of Tasso's life, and what ia 
known of it is so romantic, that more liberty may be taken." 



DRAMATIS PERSONS. 

TORQUATO TASSO. 

Alphonso, the second Duke of Ferrara. 
Antonio Montecaliva, Secretary of State, 

Princess Leonora, Sister of the Duke. 
Leonora Sanvitali, Countess of Scandiano, 

The Scene is at Belriguardo, a Villa. 



(*») 



TASSO. 



ACT I. 

Scene I. — A garden ornamented with busts of the epic poet*. 
In front, on the right, is Virgil; on the left, Ariosto. 

The Princess, Leonoea Sanvitali, with garlands in their 
hands. 

Prin. You look at me and smile, my Leonora, 
Then turn away your face and smile again : 
Why do you not express to your companion 
Those pleasing, pensive thoughts ? 

Leon. I mused, my princess, 

On the sweet rural peace we now enjoy ; 

We live here like the careless shepherdesses, 

And like them pass the hours in weaving garlands. 

See what a variegated wreath is mine ! 

How many flowers and buds ! But thine is laurel. 

Thy lofty mind could joy in nothing less. 

Prin. And to an honored head I consecrate 

What I have twined amid such happy thoughts ; 

To Virgil's. [She crowns the bust of Virgil. 

Leon. And thou, Ludovico, 

Whose fancy like the spring, sportive and blooming, 
Brought forth such wealth of buds and flowers, thou wilt not 
Disdain my motley offering. [She crowns Ariosto's bust. 

(339) 



360 THE DRAMA OP 

Prin. My brother has been kind indeed to send us 
Thus early to this dear retreat, where truly 
We live unto ourselves, and, undisturbed, 
Dream back the golden days of poesy. 
Youth's brightest hours I passed at Belriguardo, 
And May-time here gives them to me again. 

Leon. Yes ; all here smiles in tender youthful beauty ; 
The warm airs woo us, and the plashing fountains ; 
The heavy shadows of the evergreens 
Are not unwelcome. The young trees and shrubs 
Put forth new leaves with each day's warmer sun ; 
And now from every bed flowers turn up to us 
Their loving, childish eyes. The gardener 
Released the citron and the orange trees 
To-day from their confinement. The wide heavens 
Are curtained o'er with one soft sleepy blue, 
Save that the now dissolving snows have edged 
The horizon with their vapors as a border. 

Prin. Ah ! why must a regret mar all this beauty ? 
This lovely spring removes thee from my side. 

Leon. Remind me not, dear princess, in this hour, 
That I so soon must leave thy gentle presence. 

Prin. The city soon shall give thee other pleasures, 
And we shall be forgot. 

Leon. Duty and love 

Now call me to the husband who so long 
Has suffered my delay. 1 carry him our son, 
Whom for a year he has not seen ; 
I joy that his improved mind and beauty 
Will give such pleasure to a father's heart. 
But for the rest, there is in splendid Florence 
Nought that can vie with dear Ferrara's gems. 



TORQUATO TASSO. 361 

Florence is great but through the people's wealth ; 
Ferrara through her princess. 

Prin. Say rather through those wise men 

Whom chance brought hither and good luck detained. 

Leon, Chance scatters that which she alone collected : 
Only the noble can attract the noble, 
And hold them firmly bound as you have done. 
You and your brother have assembled round you 
Men worthy of yourselves and your great father, 
Who kindled in this palace the twin lights 
Of wisdom and of mental freedom, when 
Our other realms were sleeping in the night 
Of barbarous ignorance. To my childish ear, 
Hip poly tus and Hercules d'Esti 
Were names of magic power. My parents loved 
Florence and Rome ; my heart turned to Ferrara, 
Where Petrarch found a home, and Ariosto models. 
Here the great men whom Italy reveres 
Have all been entertained with honor due, 
And honorably have repaid your kindness, 
Sounding abroad the praises of your house. 
Your grandchildren will glory in these days 
Of splendid hospitality. 

Prin. Yes, if they feel like thee ; 

I envy thee such happy sensibility. 

Leon. Nay, thine is happier. How pure and tranquil 
Are thy enjoyments. My full heart impels me 
At once to speak what I so lively feel ; 
Thou feel'st it deeper, better, and art silent. 
No meteoric lights can dazzle thee ; 
Wit bribes thee not, and flattery wooes in vain, 
Still with fine taste, and as unerring judgment, 
31 



362 THE DRAMA OF 

Thy soul appropriates the great and fair 
In feature new, familiar in the spirit. — 

Prin. It is not well to mask such flattery 

Beneath the guise of friendly confidence. 

Leon. A friend alone can justly praise and prize 

Such worth as thine. But since thou art so modest 

We will impute it to some happy circumstance 

Of education or companionship 

Thou hast it. And thy sister of Urbino 

Stands first amid the women of our day. 

Frin. 'Tis true, Leonora, flattery could never 

So swell our hearts if we would call to mind 
How piece by piece we thankless have received 
Our all from others. All that I have learned 
Of ancient lore and speech is from my mother ; 
And if in wisdom or in manners either 
Lucretia or myself can be compared 
With such a model, surely 'tis my sister. 
My rank, my name are gifts of a kind fate ; 
I joy that I may hear when wise men speak, 
And understanding^ receive those words 
Breathed to instruct and elevate their kind. 
Delighted listen I when eloquence 
Pours forth the mingled treasures of the breast 
Obedient to its glowing impulses. And whether 
The poet tunes his lyre to eulogize 
The deeds of princes, or philosophers 
Refine upon the simplest, obscure action, 
My ear is ready, and my mind can follow ; 
And this indeed is happiness ! 

Leon. I too love 

The poet's gentle yet inspiring influence , 



TORQUATO TASSO. 863 

Thy range is wider. I could live forever 
Upon the isle of Poesy, nor weary 
Of roaming through its laurel groves. 

Prin. Not laurel only — 

The myrtle also decks that beauteous isle, 
And in the fair companionship of Muses 
May not a lady hope to meet some poet 
Who rapturously may recognize in her 
The treasure he was seeking far and wide ? 

Leon. That arrow glanced aside. The jest doth touch me, 
But goes not home. To all I would be just, 
And admiration is the due of Tasso. 
His inspired eye which roves from earth to heaven, 
His ear which drinks the harmonies of Nature ; 
The past and present have enriched his mind, 
And much that Nature scattered far apart 
Combines there to a new and beauteous being. 
The dead and mute find life and voice, 
And daily glow with colors not their own, 
And all false pomps fade to their native dulness. 
He draws us to him in his magic circle, 
Then he seems near, and yet again so far, 
And oft appears to gaze on us when shapes 
From other worlds stand betwixt us and him. 

Prin. Thou givest a faithful picture of the poet 
Enthroned above his shadowy world ; but yet 
There are realities that can attract him. 
Tell me, those sonnets we so often find 
Upon these trees, breathing to us the perfume 
Of new Hesperian fruits, dost thou not deem them 
Formed from the blossoms of true love ? 

Leon. The songs 



£64 THE DRAMA OP 

Must charm the hearer ; sweetly do they celebrate 
His lovely one ; whether the poet raising her 
To heavenly height bows down before his angel, 
Or leads her through the fields of our poor planet, 
Wreathing her brow with earth-born flowers, or when 
As she departs he consecrates the turf 
Her delicate foot has trod, a very nightingale 
He fills each thicket with his soft complaining. 

Prin. And when he warbles forth his beauty's name, 
Is it not Leonora ? 

Leon. Thy name also ! 

A happy ambiguity for him ; 
And I am well content that he must thus 
Remember me in such sweet moments. This 
Is not a common love, whose only aim 
Is to possess its object and exclude 
All other worshippers from the chosen shrine. 
His love for thee need not forbid the poet 
From joying in my lighter mode of being. 
Neither of us he loves, if, as I think, 
He clusters fancies born in other spheres 
Around the chosen name of Leonora. 
And even so with us, for we too love 
Not Tasso, not the man, but the embodying 
Of the soaring and impassioned in our nature. 

Prin Thou art learned in these matters, Leonora • 
Much thou hast said has only touched my ear, 
And links not with my thoughts. 

How say'st thou ? 

Leon. The scholar of Plato cannot understand 
A novice like myself. I meant but this — 
In modern days Cupid no longer sports 



TORQUATO TASSO. 365 

A mischievous, spoiled child. A manly youth, 
Husband to Psyche, counsellor to the gods ! 
No longer skips he with unseemly haste 
From heart to heart. With mien and mind sedate 
He chooses now his lodging, nor need fear 
To repent his whims in sadness and disgust. 
Prin. Here comes my brother. Let us not provoke, 
By talking on this theme, more of the jests 
Our quaint array already has called forth. 



Scene II. 

The former persons and Alphonso. 

Alph. Is't possible that here I seek in vain 

For Tasso ? Where, fair ladies, is the poet ? 

Prin. To-day we have not seen him. 

Alph. He retains then 

His ancient love for solitude. But though 
We cannot marvel that he would escape 
The empty babble of a crowd of worldlings 
To seek still converse with his secret spirit, 
It is not well that he should feel impatient, 
And thus transgress the boundary of a circle 
Drawn at the spell of friendship. 

Leon If I mistake not 

Thou wilt soon lay aside all thought of blame. 
To-day I saw him walking in the garden, 
Carrying his book, and writing in his tablets. 
From something that escaped him yester-eve 
I think his work is finished, and to-day 
He probably is giving the last touches, 
31* 



366 THE DRAMA Of 

And making such corrections as he deems 
Needful to fit it for your princely eye. 
When he has polished it to perfect symmetry, 
He will present it for that approbation 
So valuable in his eyes. 

Alph. Most welcome 

Shall he be when he brings it, and left free 
To his own will long after. Never yet 
Have I so much desired the end of any thing. 
I feel unceasing interest in its progress ; 
But he is always altering and improving, 
And by his over-anxious care how often 
He has deceived my hope ! 

Prin. He strives, 

Like a true poet, to give fit expression 
To the rich breathings of his favorite Muse. 
He understands what means the unity, 
The well-ordered fabric of a real poem. 
A string of sentiments and romantic stories 
Following each other without end or aim, 
Save to amuse the moment, nor aspiring 
To leave a perfect image in the soul, 
Cannot content a taste like that of Tasso. 
Trouble him not, my brother. Works of beauty 
Are not judged by the time that was consumed 
In their production. And his private friends 
Ought not to ask that he should sacrifice 
The interest of so many future ages 
To gratify them some poor moments. 

A Iph Dearest, 

So let it be as it has ever been ; 
Thy mildness checks my too great eagerness, 



TORQUATO TASSO. 367 

And I give impulse to thy gentle wishes. 

But I believe that I am right in wishing 

To see the poem we have so admired 

Known to our fatherland and to the world. 

'Tis time that he should feel new influences : 

The solitude he loves has cradled him 

Too softly. Praise and blame he should encounter, 

Bear both, and learn from both. For it is this 

Which forms the manly character. The youth 

Called into action both by friend and foe 

Will learn to use his utmost strength. 'Tis then 

That he may claim to be esteemed a Man. 

Leon. Thou wilt protect him in this novel scene, 
As thou hast ever done. 'Tis true that talent 
Ts formed in solitude ; but character, 
In the resorts of busy men, seeks shape 
And aliment. His natural mistrust 
Towards his fellow-men might but too probably 
Be mixed in time with hate and fear. 

Alph. He only 

Fears men who knows them not — and he who shuns 

Their converse soon misunderstands them. This 

Is Tasso's case, and thus, little by little, 

The freest mind becomes confused and fettered. 

He often doubts my favor, although never 

Has it been clouded towards him ; and many 

Whom he distrusts, I know are not his foes. 

A letter lost, a servant who could leave him 

And seek another service, seem to him 

To mark some bad design — some black conspiracy 

Against nis peace. 

Prin. Ah ! let us never 



368 THE DRAMA OP 

Forget, my brother, that each man is born 
With certain qualities that never leave him. 
And if a friend, when journeying in our company, 
Should lame his foot, is it not best and kindest 
To lead him by the hand, and walk more slowly ? 

Alph. To call some true physician and attempt 

A cure were better still ; since then we might 

Go gayly forward with the convalescent. 

Yet think not I would rudely touch his hurt, 

But fain would I give better confidence 

To his o'er-anxious heart, and often seek 

Public occasions to bestow on him 

Marks of peculiar favor. All his troubles 

I carefully inquire into ; as lately 

When he believed his chambers had been entered 

With some wrong purpose. Nothing was discovered, 

And then I calmly told him what I thought, 

But with the utmost gentleness and patience. 

Well ! as for other matters, I this night 

Must leave you, as affairs of consequence 

Recall me to the city. Our Antonio 

Returned to-day from Rome, and I must therefore 

Hold council on the intelligence he brings, 

And dictate my despatches. Ere we go 

He would pay his respects to you, fair ladies, 

And will be with us some few moments hence. 

Prin. Is't not thy wish that we return with thee ? 

Alph. No ; for I know your pleasure is to be 
Here or at Consandoli, and I would not 
Break in on your enjoyment of the season. 

Prin. But why cannot you manage such affairs 
As well here, without going to the city ? 



TORQUATO TASSO. 869 

Leon. It is not well to carry off Antonio 

Ere we have heard the news from Some. 

Alph. We both 

Shall visit you again as soon as may be : 
Then shall he entertain you, and your smiles 
Help me to recompense his faithful service ; 
And when all that is properly performed, 
I shall admit the public to these gardens, 
And animate the shades and walks with groups 
Of young and pretty subjects. 

Leon. We know of old 

Your highness loves such picturesque additions. 

Alph. I could retort upon thee if I would. 

Prin. This half hour Tasso has been walking towards us ; 
Yet still he dallies, seems irresolute, 
And cannot quite decide to come or go. 

Alph. Wrapt in his dreams as usual ! 

Leon. Ah ! he comes. 

Scene III. 

Tasso, carrying a book covered with parchment. 

Tasso. I come, half fearfully, to bring my work, 

And hardly dare to place it in thy hand. 

I know too well it yet is incomplete, 

While I present it as a finished task ; 

But I know not when I should cease to feel 

Faults that on each survey start up to vex me ; 

And better thus than tax your patience further. 

I will not preface such a gift by aught ; 

I can but say, such as it is, 'tis yours. 
Alph. This day shall be esteemed a festival, 



370 THE DRAMA OF 

Which places in my hand a gift so wished for, 
I almost feared never to call it mine, 
fulfilling hopes too oft and long deferred ; 

Tasso. If you are satisfied, I must be so, 

For I regard the work as yours in spirit. 
The embodying, indeed, is mine ; but all 
Which gives my lay its worth and dignity 
Takes rise from you. For if I were endowed 
By Nature with the power to tell in song 
The visitings of gentle Fancy, Fortune 
Always refused to aid her sister's bounty ; 
The fire which flashed from the boy- poet's eye 
Was often quenched with ineffectual tears, 
Forced by his parents' undeserved distress ; 
And his tyre's sweetest tones could not alleviate 
The sorrows of those dear ones : till thy grace 
Sought out and drew me from this living grave 
To liberty and light, wherein my soul 
Her powers expanded, and gave forth a voice 
Of love and courage. But for you this lay 
Had never seen the light. Receive your work. 

Alph. Be doubly honored for thy modesty. 

Tasso. O, could I speak as I profoundly feel 

My gratitude ! My youth knew nought of arms ; 

Apart from action's busy scene I learned 

From thee the varied forms of life. The wisdom 

Of the, commander, the heroic courage 

Of youthful knighthood — if my lay could paint them, 

'Tis from thy converse I have drawn their being. 

Prin. Enough ! Rejoice in the delight thou givest. 

Alph. In the applause of all good minds. 

Leon. Of all the world ! 



TORQUATO TASSO. 371 

Tasso-. This moment gives reward and joy enough. 
On you I thought whether I mused or wrote ; 
To give you pleasure was my constant wish, 
My highest aim and hope. Who finds not 
A world in his friends' hearts, can never merit 
That the world hear his name. Why ! in this circle 
My soul could live and find it wide enough ; 
Experience, wisdom, taste have forged the links 
Which bind you to all after ages. What 
Can crowds do for the artist ? Mingled voices 
Bewilder and confuse him. Only those 
Who feel like you shall understand and judge me. 

Alph. If in thy eyes we really represent 

The present and the future world, we should not 
Omit to give this thought some outward token : 
The crown which even heroes must rejoice 
To wreathe around the temples of the bard, 
Without whom all their glory could not live, 
Some genius must have placed upon the head 
Of thy great ancestor for this occasion. 

[Pointing to the bust of Virgil. 
Methinks he says, " If you would truly venerate 
The illustrious dead, do honor to the living, 
As our contemporaries did to us. 
My statue tells its tale, and needs no crown ; 
Bestow its living honors on the living." 

[Alphonso beckons his sister ; she takes the crown 
and approaches Tasso ; he draws back. 

Leon. Wilt thou refuse the imperishable crown 
From such a hand ? 

Tasso. O, pardon me ; such honor is not for me. 

Alph. Soon shall the world pronounce it justly thine. 



372 THE DRAMA OP 

Prin. (Holding up the crown.) Wilt thou deny me the rare 
pleasure, Tasso, 

Without a word to tell thee what I think ? 
Tasso. The precious burden from that dearest hand 

My head, though weak, shall not decline. 

[Kneels down ; she places it on his head, 
Leon. Hail ! 

Thy first crown becomes thee well. 
Alph. And soon 

Another shall be added at the Capitol. 
Prin. And plaudits there shall tell thee what the lips 

Of friendship can but whisper now. 
Tasso. O, take it 

From this unworthy head ; my locks are singed, 

And thought burned from my brain as by the rays 

Of an o'erpowering sun. A feverish heat 

Inflames my veins. Pardon ! it is too much. 
Leon. Rather shall it protect thy head when wandering 

In Fame's domain, which lies so near the sun, 

And yield a grateful shade. 
Tasso. I am not worthy 

Of such refreshment. Rather place it 

Amid the farthest clouds, that life-long toils 

May strive to such an aim. 
Alph. He who early wins, 

Best prizes this world's sweetest blessings. He 

Obtaining early, ill endures the loss 

Of that which long possessed seems part of life ; 

And he who would possess must still be ready. 
Tasso. And that requires a never-failing strength, 

Which now deserts me. In this prosperous moment 

My heart misses the courage which ne'er failed me 



TOBQUATO TASSO. 373 

In rudest shocks of past adversity. 

Yet once again, my princess, hear my prayer ; 

Remove the crown ; it does, and must, oppress me. 

Prin. If thou couldst humbly walk beneath the weight 
Of Nature's richest, rarest gifts, thou wilt not 
Sink under that of laurel garlands : 
Content thee in our will. Even if we wished, 
We could not take them from the brows they once 
Have consecrated. 

Tasso. Let me go then 

To that still grove where oft I mused in sorrow, 

To meditate my happiness. There no eye 

Can glance reproaches at my want of merit ; 

And should some fountain give me back the image 

Of one who sits 'neath heaven's blue canopy 

A.mid those lofty pillars, his brow crowned 

And his eye fixed in thought, I shall but fancy 

Elysium lies before mine eye. I ask, 

Who is the happy one ? Some bard or hero 

From the bright by-gone day. Where are the others, 

His comrades and inspirers ? O, to see them 

Bound in a circle by that strongest magnet 

Which links the answering souls of bards and heroes ! 

Homer felt not himself ; his true existence 

Was in the contemplation of two heroes ; 

And Alexander welcomes in Elysium 

With like embrace Achilles and his poet. 

O, might I share such greeting ! 

Leon. Hush such fancies. 

Dost thou disdain the present ? 

Tasso 'Tis that present 

Which elevates me to such rapturous thoughts. 
32 



374 THE DRAMA OF 

Prin. I joy to hear thee talk in such bright spirits. 

[Enter a page, who gives a letter to Alphonso. 
Alph. Antonio ! In a happy hour he comes. 
Admit him. 

Scene IV. 

The former persons and Antonio. 

Alph. Doubly welcome, 

For thine own sake, and for the prosperous end 
Of thine adventure. 

Prin. To us also welcome. 

Anto. Can I express the pleasure of these moments ? 
To see you all at last, and find you satisfied 
With all which I have done in your behalf, 
O, 'tis full recompense for each vexation, 
The wearing cares, and days of weariness. 
I have fulfilled your wishes and am happy. 

Leon. I bid thee cordial welcome, though thy coming 
Is summons to my undesired departure. 

Anto. And this is bitter mixed in my full cup. 

Tasso. To me too, welcome. May I also hope 
Some benefit from thine experience ? 

Anto. If thou shouldst e'er incline to cast a look 
From thy world into mine. 

Alph. Though from thy letters 

I know the outlines of thy late transactions, 
Yet many questions I would ask. How finally 
Was thy success obtained ? Full well I know 
A faithful servant is hard tasked in Rome ; 
F >r there, the powers that be, take all, give nought 

Anto. Not through my diplomatic skill, my lord, 



TORQUATO TASSO. 375 

Was all you wished obtained. But many chances 
Came to my aid, and Gregory, the worthiest, 
The most discriminating head which ever 
Wore the tiara, loves and honors thee, 
Nor ever crossed my strivings in thy cause. 

Alph. His favorable thoughts must give me pleasure, 
But not invite my confidence. I know 
As well as thou what sways the Vatican ; 
The wish for universal empire. Talk not 
Of favor, then, from princes or from men, 
But say what helped thee most. 

Anto. The pope's high mind sees truly, great as great . 
And little things as little. He is one 
Who can command a world, yet love his neighbor. 
He knows the strip of land he yields to thee 
Is less worth than thy friendship. He would have 
Peace near him, that he may more undisturbed 
Rule Christendom, and hurl his thunderbolts 
With concentrated strength against the heathen. 

Prin. Who are his counsellors and favorites ? 

Anto. Wise and experienced men possess his ear ; 
His instruments do honor to his choice. 
Having long served the state, he knows her powers, 
And how to sway those foreign courts, all which 
He studied in succession as ambassador. 
He is not blinded by his separate interests 
To those of others, and his every action 
Speaks a large purpose, and a plan matured 
By many days of silent scrutiny. 
There is no fairer sight than a wise prince 
Swaying all interests to a just subservience 
To that of the great whole ; each man is proud 



376 THE DRAMA OF 

Of doing his commands, feeling that thus 
He best performs his proper revolution, 
Receiving light and heat as his sphere asks them. 

Leon. A fair thing to behold. 

Alph. Or rather help create. For Leonora 
Loves not the dull part of a looker-on. 
She fain would set those pretty hands to work 
At this great game. Is it not so, my fair one ? 

Leon. Thou canst not tease me now. 

Alph. I owe thee something 

Since many days. 

Leon. I now am in thy debt, 

But too full of my questions to repay thee. 
( To Antonio.) What gave he to his nephew ? 

Anto. Merely justice. 

The mighty one, who doth not help his own, 
Is blamed even by his people. He knows how 
To serve them, and the state through them. 

Tasso. Do Learning and Art joy also in his patronage ? 

Anto. He venerates that learning which is useful, 
Or to instruct or regulate his people : 
And Art, when she adorns his Rome, or makes 
The whole world marvel at her palaces 
And stately temples. Near him nought is idle ; 
What would be honored, still must work and serve. 

Alph. And dost thou think that we may be secure, 
No further obstacles cast in our way ? 

Anto. A few more letters and thy signature 

Shall close the strife. 
Alph. Ever be blest the day 

Which gives such freedom to the present one ; 
The future such security. And thou, 



TORQUATO TASSO. 377 

Gaining such bloodless victory, dost deserve 

A civic crown. The fair ones should to-morrow 

Twine thee one of oak leaf. For as Tasso 

To-day enriched me with a glorious conquest, 

That of Jerusalem, so long contested, 

Thou seest we have meetly honored him. 
Anto. Thou solvest an enigma. Two crowned heads 

I saw with wonder as I entered. 
Tasso. Couldst thou 

But see my sense of undeserved applause ! 
Anto. I knew long since Alphonso's liberality 

In his rewards. 
Prin. When thou hast seen 

Our Tasso's work, thou wilt not deem us liberal. 

We only claim to head the long procession 

Of his admirers — to which future years 

Shall add their thousands. 
Anto. Your applause is fame. 

I dare not doubt where you approve. Who placed 

This wreath on Ariosto's brow ? 
Leon. 'Twas I. 

Anto. Thou hast judged well. The motley blooming garland 

Better beseems him than the prouder laurel. 

Nature he paints in her own varying hues, 

Not aiming at the sculptor's cold ideal ; 

Yet, wandering through his tale's fantastic page, 

Frequent we bow the knee at wayside shrines ; 

There the heart's natural deities smile on us, 

Fixed by the enchanter's wand in all life's bloom. 

Contentedness, experience, and wit, 

Imagination, pure taste, and sound judgment, 

Combine to illume the heaven of his mind, 
32* 



378 THE DRAMA OF 

A new, and O, how radiant constellation ! 

His sages rest beneath the blossoming bough 

Which sheds its snowy treasures o'er their slumbers ; 

Or, crowned with roses, touch the thrilling lute, 

And wisdom speaks in love's melodious tones ; 

The brook's soft murmur lures your wandering eyes 

To the strange glittering forms that dwell beneath 

Its amber waves. The air, the grove, the meadow, 

Teem with creation of his lavish fancy : 

There Prudence dances in a robe of green, 

And Wisdom thunders from a golden cloud. 

But he, who framed, is Monarch of this realm, 

And all which seems incongruous in the parts 

Finds place and aim in the romantic whole. 

He who could wear the garland in his presence, 

Deserves it for his boldness. Pardon me 

If I talk largely or extravagantly. 

These crowns, these poets, and these rural robes 

Lead me out of myself. 

Prin. Who knows so well 

To praise the one must learn to prize the other. 
Thou shalt read Tasso's lays, and tell to us 
All we have felt, and thou canst understand. 

Alph. Come with me, now, Antonio. I must ask 
Some questions more, and after will resign you 
Entirely to these ladies. Now, farewell. 



TORQUATO TASSO. 379 

ACT II. 
Scene I. —A Hall. 

The Princess, Tasso. 

Tasso, As with uncertain steps I follow thee, 

Wild and disordered thoughts oppress my mind, 

And ask some hours of solitude to still 

Their feverish tumult. Yet to gaze on thee 

Is like the dawning of another day, 

And must unloose my bonds. Yes ; I must tell thee. 

Our unexpected visitor has waked me 

With most ungentle touch from my sweet dream. 

His words, his presence, have with sudden force 

Roused up new feelings to confuse my soul. 

Prin. It is impossible that an old friend, 

After an absence passed in scenes unlike 
Those which we knew together, should appear, 
In the first moment of reunion, near 
And dear as when we parted. Yet we should not, 
Impatient, deem that we have lost him. Soon 
The strings respond again to their concordance, 
And harmony makes glad the waiting heart. 
He is unchanged within. The jars arise 
But from another atmosphere. Antonio, 
When he has learned to know thee and thy works, 
Will hold forth eloquently in thy praise, 
As late in Ariosto's. 

Tasso. Ah, believe me, 

Those praises were delightful to my ear ; 

My heart soft whispered as he spoke ; and thou 

Mayst thus enkindle in some soul of honor 



380 THE DRAMA OF 

These incense-breathing fires. Though lowlier gifted, 
Sincere has been thy striving, great thy love. 
What pained me was the picture of his world, 
With all these glowing, grand, and restless shapes, 
Which such a man can charm into his circle, 
Submissive to the spells his wisdom frames ; 
For as I gazed, my world sank in the distance 
Behind steep rocks, on which I seemed to fade 
To echo — to poor shadow of a sound — 
Bodiless — powerless. 

Prin. And but now, how dear 

Thou felt'st the ties which bind the bard and hero ; 

Born to adorn their day with noble rivalry, 

By envy unprofaned. The heroic deed 

Which fires the bard is beautiful ; nor less so 

The generous ardor which embalms the deed 

In lays whose fragrance breathes o'er far-off ages. 

Thou must live tranquil, or thy song is marred. 

l^asso. Here first I saw how valor is rewarded. 
I came here at a time when feast on feast, 
Given to celebrate Ferrara's glory, 
Dazzled my boyish eye, as in the lists 
Knighthood displayed its prowess. The first men, 
The fairest women of our day, looked on — 
Flowers of our fatherland, bound in one garland. 
When the lists opened, when the trumpet sounded, 
Helm and shield glittered, coursers pawed the ground, 
Pages ran to and fro, the lances shivered, 
And rising clouds of dust hid for a moment 
The victor's triumph and the vanquished's shame. 
O, what a spectacle of worldly splendor ! 
T felt my littleness, and shrank abashed. 



TORQUATO TASSO. 381 

Prin. How differently did I pass those moments 

Which sowed ambition in thy heart ! The lore 

Of sufferance I was painfully receiving. 

That feast which hundreds since have vaunted to me 

I could not see. In a far, dim apartment, 

Where not an echo of this gayety 

Could penetrate, I lay. Before my eyes 

Death waved his broad, black pinions. When the light 

Of motley raging life returned upon them, 

It showed as through a dusky veil obscured. 

In those first days of unhoped convalescence, 

I left my chamber leaning on my women. 

I met Lucretia full of joy and health, 

And guiding thee, their harbinger, to me. 

Thou wert the first who welcomed me to this 

New lease of life ; I hailed it as an omen, 

And hoped much jfor and from thee ; nor have I 

Been by my hope deceived. 

Tass:, And I, 

Who had been deafened by the tumult, dazzled 

By the excess of light, and roused by many 

Passions unknown before, as with thy sister 

I met thee in that long, still gallery, 

Was like one much harassed by magic spells 

Beneath the influence of celestial spirits. 

And since, when wild desires distracting pant 

After their thousand objects, has the memory 

Of that hour bridled them, and turned aside 

My thoughts from their unworthy course. But some 

Wildly and vainly search on ocean's sands 

To find the pearl which lies fast locked, the while, 

In its still, secret shell. 



382 THE DRAMA OF 

Prin. Those were fair days, 

And had not Duke d'Urbino wed my sister, 
Our happiness were still unclouded. But 
We want her life and courage, her gay spirit 
And various wit. 

Tasso. I know that thou 

Canst ne'er forget her loss. O, I have felt it 
Often and keenly — often have complained 
In solitude that I could not supply 
What thou hast lost in her ; could nothing be 
Where I desired so much. O that I might be some- 
thing, 
And not in words, but deeds, express to thee 
How my heart worships thee. In vain, alas ! 
I cannot gladden thee, and often vex thee ; 
In my bewilderment have injured those 
Thou wouldst protect, have marred and frustrated 
Thy cherished schemes, and still go farthest from thee 
When I most sigh to approach thee. 

Prin. I have never 

Doubted thy wishes towards me, and grieve 
Only that thou shouldst hurt thyself. My sister 
Can live with every one in his own way. 
Might'st thou but find thyself in such a friend. 

Tasso. In whom, except thyself, can I confide ? 

Prin. My brother. 

Tasso. He is my sovereign. 

Not the wild dreams of freedom bar the way. 
I know, I feel, man was not born to freedom ; 
And to a worthy heart 'tis happiness 
To serve a worthy prince. But I cannot 
Serve him and trust him as an equal friend, 



TOJBQUATO TASSO. 383 

But must in silence learn his will and do it, 

E'en should mine own rebel. 
Prin. Antonio 

Would be a prudent friend. 
Tasso. And once I hoped 

To have him for a friend, but now despair. 

I know his converse and his counsel both 

Are what I need. But when the assembled gods 

Showered in his cradle rich and varied gifts, 

The Graces held back theirs. And whom they slight 

(However favored by all other powers) 

Can never build their palaces in hearts. 
Prin. O, but he is a man worthy of faith : 

Ask not so much — he will redeem all pledges 

His words and manner give. Should he once promise 

To be thy friend, he would do all for thee. 

O, I will have it so. It will be easy, 

Unless thou art perverse. But Leonora, 

Whom thou so long hast known, and who is surely 

Refined and elegant to the degree 

Of thy fastidious taste's exaction, why 

Hast thou not answered to her proffered friendship ? 
Tasso. I had declined it wh€lly but for thee. 

I know not why, I cannot fx*ankly meet her, 

And oft, when she would benefit a friend, 

Design is felt, and her intent repulsed. 
Prin. This path, Tasso 

Leads through dark valleys and still lonely woods ; 

Hope no companion if thou wilt pursue it. 

There canst thou only strive, that golden time 

Which thy eye vainly seeks within thy mind 

To form and animate. Even that I fear 

Thou vainly wilt essay. 



384 THE DRAMA OP 

Tasso. Ah, my princess, 

Do all hearts vainly sigh ! That golden time, 

Is it quite gone ? that age of blissful freedom, 

When on the bosom of the mother earth 

Their children dreamed in fond security ; 

The ancient trees sheltered from noonday heat 

The happy shepherds with their shepherdesses ; 

The streams could boast their nymphs. Fawns were 

familiar ; 
Snakes had no venom, and the fearless birds 
And unmolested rangers of the forests, 
Every gay creature in its frolic play 
Taught man the truth — All which can Hess is lawful. 

Prin. My friend, the golden age indeed is past ; 
Only the good have power to bring it back. 
And (shall I frankly tell thee what I think ?) 
The poets feign in all their pretty tales 
Of that same age. Most like 'twas then as now, 
United noble hearts make golden days, 
Interpret to each other the world's beauty. 
Change in thy maxim but one single word, 
All is explained. All which is meet is lawful. 

Tasso. Might then a synod of the wise and good 
Decide on what is meet ; for now each one 
Says that is meet which to himself is pleasing, 
And to the crafty and the powerful 
All is permitted, whether just or not ! 

Prin. A synod of good women should decide ; 
It is their province. Like a wall, decorum 
Surrounds and guards the frailer sex. Propriety, 
Morality, are their defence and fortress, 
Their tower of strength ; and lawlessness their foe 



TOUQUATO TASSO. 385 

And as man loves bold trials of his strength, 

So woman, graceful bonds, worn with composure. 

Tasso. Thou think'st us rude, impetuous, and unfeeling ? 

Prin. Not so ! Your striving is for distant good, 
And must be eager to effect its end ; 
But ours for single, limited possessions, 
Which we would firmly grasp, and constant hold. 
We have slight hold upon your hearts ; that beauty 
Which wins them is so frail ; and when 'tis gone 
Those qualities to which it lent a charm 
Are worthless in your eyes. But were there men 
Could know a woman's heart, could feel what treasure 
Of truth and tenderness is hoarded there, 
Could keep the memory of by-gone bliss, 
And by its aid could penetrate the veil 
That age or sickness o'er her casts, and did not 
The gaining of one gem, instead of quieting, 
Excite desire for others, — then to us 
A beauteous day would dawn, and we should know 
Our golden age. 

Tasso. Thy words call up 

Sharp pains that long have slept within my breast. 

Prin. What mean'st thou, Tasso ? frankly tell it me. 

Tasso. I hear that noble princes ask thy hand : 
I always knew it must be so, yet have not 
These trembling apprehensions taught my heart 
To encounter such misfortune. Though 'tis natural 
That thou shouldst leave us, how we shall endure it 
I know not. 

Prin. Free thy mind 

From all such fears ; I dare to say, forever. 
33 



386 - THE DRAMA OP 

I do not wish to go, nor shall, unless 

My friends disturb my home by vain dissensions. 

Tasso. O, teach me but what I shall do for thee ; 
My life is thine, my heart beats but to praise, 
To adore thy excellence ; my all of bliss 
To realize the beautiful in thee. 
The gods are separate and elevate 
Far above man as destiny o'er prudence, 
And plans formed by the foresight of us mortals 
Waves which o'erwhelm us with destroying presi 
To their wide ken seem but as the brook's ripple. 
The wild tornadoes of our atmosphere 
Reach not those azure heights where they are thinned. 
They hear our wailings with as light regard 
As we do children's for their shattered toys. 
But thou, serene as they, art not removed 
From sympathy, but oft, sun-like, dost pour 
Down from thy heights floods of consoling light. 
Upon these eyelids wet with dew of earth. 

Prin. All women ought to love the bard, whose lay 

Like theirs can praise them. Soft and yet heroic, 
Lovely and noble, hast thou painted them ; 
And e'en Armida's faults are half redeemed 
By tenderness and beauty. 

Tasso. From one model 

I pictured all ; if any shall be deemed 
Worthy of immortality, to that model 
They owe it. My Clorinda and Hermione 
Her unheeded but undying faith. Olindo, 
His sorrow and Sophronia's magnanimity, 
Are not the children of my fancy ; now 
They exist, and if profound reality 



TORQUATO TASSO. 387 

Give interest to a picture, shall endure 

The story of a nobly-placed devotion 

Breathed into song. 
Prin. Thy poem's highest praise 

Is that it leads us on, and on. We listen, 

We think we understand, nor can we blame 

That which we understand, and thus become thy captives. 
Tasso. Thy words breathe heaven, princess ; but I need 

The eagle's eye to bear the new-born light. 
Prin. No more at present, Tasso. If some things 

May suddenly be seized, yet love and virtue 

(Nearly, I think, related to each other) 

Ask in their quest patience and self-denial. 

Forget not this. And now adieu, my friend. 



Scene II. 

Tasso, alone. 

Tasso. Is it permitted thee to ope thine eyes 

And look around — above thee ? Did these pillars 

Hear what she spake ? They were the witnesses 

How a descending goddess lifted me 

Into a new, incomparable day. 

What power, what wealth, lie in this new-traced circle I 

My happiness outruns my wildest dream ! 

Let those born blind think what they will of colors, 

To the cleared eye wakens a novel sense. 

What courage, what presentiment ! Drunk with joy 

I scarce can tread the indicated path, 

And how shall I deserve the choicest gifts 

Of earth and heaven ? Patience, self-denial, 



888 THE DRAMA OF 

Must give me claim to confidence — they shall. 

O, how did I deserve that she should choose me ! 

What shall I do to justify her choice ? 

Yet that choice speaks my worth. Yes ; I am worthy, 

Since she could think me so. My soul is consecrate, 

My princess, to thy words, thy looks. Whate'er 

Thou wilt, ask of thy slave. In distant lands 

I'll seek renown with peril of my life, 

Or chant in every grove thy charms and virtues. • 

Wholly possess the creature thou hast formed ; 

Each treasure of my soul is thine. I ne'er can 

Express my vast devotion with the pen 

In written words. Ah, could I but assist 

The poet's by the paintei-'s art ! Did honey 

Fall from my lips ! Now never more shall I 

Be lonely, sad, or weak. Thou wilt be with me. 

Had I a squadron of the noblest men 

To help me do thy bidding, some great deed 

Should justify the boldness of a tongue 

Which dared to ask her grace ! I meant it not — 

I meant not to speak now. But it is well ; 

I take as a free gift what I could never 

Have claimed. This glorious future ! This new youth 1 

Rise, heart ! O, tree of love ! may genial showers 

Call out a thousand branches towards heaven ! 

Unfold thy blossoms, swell thy golden fruit 

Until the loved one's hand be stretched to cull it. 



TORQUATO TASSO. 389 

Scene III. 

Tasso, Antonio. 

Tasso. Be welcome to me as if now first seen. 

Thy coming is most happy. Welcome, welcome ! 

For knowing now thy worth, I long to proffer 

A heart and hand which thou must not disdain. 
Anto. I thank thee for thy gifts, but must beware 

Lest. I abuse thy generosity, accepting 

Where I cannot repay. Pardon my providence ; 

'Tis best for both I be not over hasty. 
Tasso. No one can blame the prudence which we need 

At every step ; yet in some precious moments 

The heart suffices to direct our way. 
Anto. Let each for himself decide when these occur, 

Since each must bear the weight of his own error. 
Tasso. Well, be it so. I now have asked thy friendship, 

Swayed by a wish the princess has expressed, 

And she could not expect that I should urge it. 

Time and acquaintance may perchance give value 

To what thou now almost disdain'st. 
Anto. Moderation 

Is still reproached as coldness by those men 

Who give impetuous heat the name of tenderness — 
Tasso. Thou blamest what I blame and shun. Though young 

I know that constancy and vehemence 

Seldom combine. 
Anto. Act wisely as thou speakest. 

Tasso. Thou hast a right to advise and warn me, since 

Experience is thy friend and guide. Yet trust me, 

The heart soon learns all that she teaches ; 
33* 



390 THE DRAMA OP 

In secret, practises what thou dost think 

To teach as new. 
Anto. Pleasant enough it were 

To muse about one's self, if but as useful. 

No man can know himself from contemplation, 

Measure his faculties upon a scale 

Made by himself. No ; he must read his own 

In the hearts of other men, and life alone 

Shows forth the living man. 
Tasso. With applause 

Aud reverence I listen. 
Anto. And yet thou thinkest 

Something quite different as I am speaking. 
Tasso. Thus shall we ne'er approach to one another. 

It is unkind, it is discourteous, 

In thee, thus obstinately to misinterpret 

My words and thoughts. Before the princess asked, 

I longed to know thee. I was told thou wert 

Creative still of good to others ; ever 

Assisting them, and heedless of thyself. 

With firm heart sail'st thou o'er life's changeful sea. 

I seek thee, ask but for a little part 

Of thy large treasure. I feel confidence 

Thou'lt not repent such bounty towards me ; 

But when thou know'st my heart, will be my friend, 

Such as I need. I fear not to avow 

My inexperience and unripe judgment. 

My future were a fair one did I know 

But how to meet and use it. Would'st thou teach me ? 
Anto. Thou ask'st that I this moment give a pledge 

What time and thought should justify. 
Tasso. Yet love 



TORQUATO TASSO. 391 

Will in a moment yield what toil would never 

Claim as reward. I claim, I do not ask it. 

I claim it by two words of strongest might — 

Virtue and Leonora send me to thee ; 

She wishes that we should be friends. O, let us 

Haste, hand in hand, unto her heavenly presence ; 

United offer fealty. Noble Antonio, 

Grant me that sweetest pleasure to the good 

Frankly to pour the heart out to a better. 
Anlo Full sailed as usual ! Used to conquer, every where 

To find ways broad, doors open. Be it so ! 

I yield to thee thy luck — but truth compels me 

To say that natures so unequal poised 

Never could bend unto one point. 
Tasso Unequal 

I know we are in years and in tried worth : 

In courage and good will, I yield to no one. 
Anto. From will to deed the road is not so easy 

As it may seem to thee. When the goal's reached 

The victor claims a crown, which is not always 

Given to the worthy. But some crowns there are 

Much easier gained — a careless hand may pluck 

Such from the trees during an idle stroll. 
Tasso. Some gifts, indeed, immediate from the gods, 

Nor labor nor experience could obtain ! 
Anto. Blind Fortune is the deity of such. 
Tasso. Justice protects her eyes by bands against 

Influences which might distort the truth. 
Anlo. The fortunate are right to praise their deity, 

Give her discrimination, Argus eyes, 

Name her Minerva, proudly wear her trappings 

As armor from the fight. 



392 THE DRAMA OP 

Tasso. Thou need'st not 

More plainly speak. It is enough. I look 
Into thy deepest heart, and know thee now : 
O, did the princess know thee too ! Thy tongue, 
Thy eyes, will aim their poisonous darts in vain 
Against my brows defended by this garland. 
The envious have no claim to such"; yet bring me 
The man who has reached that whereto I strive, 
A hero such as history alone 
Has given to my knowledge, or a poet 
Who may compare with Homer and with Virgil, 
(And such a one, deserving far more highly, 
Would be far more abashed to win this crown 
Than thou hast seen me,) I will humbly kneel, 
Happy to place it at his feet. 

Anto. Till then 

Remain worthy possessor of thy garland. 

Tasso. I fear not scrutiny, but will not bear 

Such uncalled-for contumely. The prince decreed me 
The crown. The princess' hand has woven it — 
Who has a title to gainsay my right 
To wear it ! 

Anto. This fuxy, this high tone, 

Beseems neither this palace, nor is it meet 
From thee to me. 

Tasso. Then why from thee to me ? 

Or is truth banished from the palace ; freedom 
Cast into chains, oppression to be borne 
By noble hearts ! Here should the swelling spirit 
Find room, if any where, nor fear the greatness 
Of earthly powers. With me it shall be so ! 
Only the high blood of our ancestors 



TOEQUATO TASSO. 393 

Gives claim to approach the prince ; why not our own ? 

Why must the large soul put on chains like these ? 

They are for little minds ; fit for the envious 

To mark their shame ! Yet such should not be here, 

Nor spiders' webs deform the marble walls. 
Anto. Thou justify'st my scorn. Rash boy ! dar'st thou 

Claim confidence and friendship from a man 7 

Unmannerly as thou art. 
Tasso. Better unmannerly 

Than like to thee, of cold, ignoble temper. 
Anto. Thou art yet young, and timely chastisement 

May moderate this folly. 
rosso. Not young enough to bow down before idols ; 

And old enough with scorn to face the scorner. 
Anto. No doubt thou art a mighty conqueror : 

When singing to thy lute thou art so doughty. 
Tasso. My hand has not been much acquainted with my 
sword, 

Yet trust I it. 
Anto. In fortune trust, 

Who still has favored thy presumption. 
Tasso. Now 

Is come the time for combat. I had not 

Wished it should be with thee ; but thou wilt have it. 

Heap coals on coals, and heat my inmost heart, 

Till the desire for vengeance boils up foaming. 

Draw ! if report speaks truly of thy manhood. 
Anto. Thou think'st as little who as where thou art. 
Tasso. No sanctuary can compel me to suffer 

Such insults in its bounds. Thou dost infringe it, 

Not I, who hither came to offer thee 

Love, veneration, confidence, my all. 



394 THE DRAMA OP 

'Tis thou, thy words, and not my swelling heart 

So greatly outraged, that profane this place. 
Anto. What lofty rage pent in one narrow breast ! 
Tasso. Well, here is space to give my bosom air. 
Anto. Needs not the sword ; with words, that may be done. 
Tasso. If thou, indeed, art noble, show it now ! 
Anto. Noble I am, and yet know where I am. 
Tasso. Come down into the court, then. 
Anto. At thy bidding ? 

Tasso. Thou art a coward. 
Anto. Those are cowards 

Who storm and threaten where they feel secure. 
Tasso. No place compels to suffer this. (Draws.) Follow me 

Or draw on peril of contempt as well 

As hatred. 

Scene IV. 

The former persons and Alphonso. 

Alph. What unseemly strife is here ? 
Anto. It is not strife ! composedly I seek 

To calm this madman ! 
Tasso. 'Tis thy look alone 

Can calm me, prince. 
Alph. Speak truly, both ; 

What leads you thus to violate propriety ? 
Tasso. This man, so noted for his courtesy 

And wisdom, hath to me so borne himself, 

So rude and so ungenerous, 'twere shame 

In the most coarsely nurtured menial. 

I accosted him in kindness ; he repulsed me. 

I persevered ; more bitterly he taunted me, 



TORQUATO TASSO. 395 

I persevered ; more bitterly he taunted me, 

Until the heart's sweet flow was turned to gall. 

If I have angered thee, it is his fault, 

For he designedly did chafe my passion. 
Anto. What a poetic flight ! Is it permitted 

By a few calm words to put down all his rhetoric ? 
Tasso. O, speak but truth ! Tell each malicious word, 

Each sneer. Do but full justice to thyself. 
Anto. If thou hast more to say, now say it, else 

Give me my turn, and interrupt me not. 

Whether 'twas I, my prince, or this hot head 

Began the quarrel, which of us had right 

I think is not the question. 
Tasso. Not the question ! 

Which of us did begin, and which was right ? 
Anto. Not wholly as it seems to thy wild mind. 
Alph. Antonio ! 
Anto. Then, please your highness, 

Let him be silent while I speak, and then 

Talk as he will. Thou wilt decide. I neither 

Accuse him nor defend myself ; not yet 

Can think it best to offer satisfaction 

As he demands. He is not now my equal, 

But subject to a heavy penalty 

From which thy grace alone can set him free. 

He threatened me, and urged me to the combat ; 

Even at thy coming scarcely sheathed his sword ; 

And I, but for thy timely interruption, 

Must also have forgotten duty. 
Alph. (To Tasso.) How? 

Tasso. My heart, I do assure your highness, speaks me 

(As I think you will) free from blame. 'Tis true 



396 THE DRAMA OF 

I challenged, threatened, him, and was the first 
To draw the sword. But he had injured me 
With his envenomed tongue beyond endurance, 
Filling each vein with poison, till I fevered 
Into delirium ; he, the while, sedate, 
Cold blooded, calculating, sneering at me. 
(Thou know'st him not.) I offered him my friendship ; 
He trampled on the gift. Had not I then 
Been roused to anger, sure I were unworthy 
Thy favor. Pardon if I have forgotten 
Those small proprieties of time and place. 
Be angry when thou seest me suffer insults. 
Methinks the grace your highness shows me should 
Have guarded me in converse with thy servant. 
Anto. How the youth sails along beneath the burden 
Of his offences ! or, like dust from raiment, 
Would careless shake them off! 'Twere marvellous, 
Did not all poets love the impossible. 
But whether thou or thine, my prince will judge 
The offence thus insignificant, I doubt. 
Majesty, like religion, should protect 
All busied in its service. At the foot 
Of thrones and altars passion should be tamed. 
Swords sleep i' the scabbard, lips forbear to threaten ; 
There's space enough elsewhere for noise and strife. 
Thy sire, who built these walls, cared for their peace, 
And the security of his descendants, 
Enacting rigorous laws against transgressors. 
Then, no respect to persons, no indulgence, 
Held back the arm of justice in such cases. 
In consequence, the walls have long been undisturbed 
By scenes like this to-day. Shall it be pardoned, 



TORQUATO TASSO. 397 

And liberty be given to wild brawlers 
To anger and assail the temperate 
While in the discharge of duty ? 

Alph. I impartially 

Have heard you both ; and you have both done wrong, 
Since 'tis so hard to decide. But if Antonio 
Have wronged thee, Tasso, he shall meet thee, 
Though I would fain settle thy differences. 
Meanwhile thou must be prisoner in thy chamber — 
The gentlest punishment for such offence. 

Tasso. Is this thy judgment, prince ? 

Anto. Say, rather, father. 

Tasso. (To Antonio.) I have nought more to say to thee. 
(To Alphonso.) O prince ! 
Thou send'st me to imprisonment ; so be it. 
I bow my head submissive to thy order ; 
My heart is silenced. I can scarce perceive 
The where or how I am. Was it a crime ? 
It was — else why should I be punished ? — yet 
I cannot feel it such. 

Alph. Talk not of crime ; it was a youthful folly. 

Tasso. Well, call it so ! I cannot understand. 
I, childlike, think I see an object clearly, 
Which the next moment turns a new side to me, 
And shows me how imperfect was my knowledge. 
But I can hear thy sentence and obey it. 
Too many words already have been wasted : 
Henceforth, obedience shall be blind and silent. 
Weakling ! thou thought'st thyself on level earth, 
And art thrown headlong from the halls of gods. 
Now I will do the thing that's forced upon me, 
With a good grace, as doth become a man. 
34 



398 THE DRAMA OF 

Receive the sword thou gav'st me when I followed 
The cardinal to France ; if not with honor, 
Without disgrace. Thy gift I have worn ever ; 
Take from my saddened heart what filled it formerly 
With hope. 

Alph. Thou quite mistak'st my feelings towards thee 

Tasso. I can obey better than understand. 

A splendid gift fate calls me to renounce ; 

This crown must not adorn a prisoner's brows ; 

Receive again what I had idly fancied 

I might forever wear. Too early given, 

My happiness is early taken from me, 

Lest I grow arrogant. Nor do the gods 

A second time bestow such gifts. O, men 

Are deeply tried. Nor could we live beneath it, 

Had not Nature given strange elasticity, 

Rebounding from severest pressure. Poverty 

Compels to part with our most precious jewels, 

And from our opened hands oft gems escape 

Which toil and searching never will bring back. 

A kiss and tear consign thee to decay. 

This weakness be permitted. Who weeps not 

When the immortal pales before decay ! 

I twine the garland round the sword, although 

Not won by trial of its temper. Rest, 

As sometimes on the coffin of the valiant, 

Upon the grave of all my bliss and hopes ; 

I lay them at thy feet ; for what are weapons 

Against thy anger ? and when thou disdain'st, 

What coronal gives honor ? Now I go 

To the imprisonment thou hast commanded. 

[Emit. The prince signs to a page to take away 
the sword and garland. 



TORQUATO TASSO. 399 



Scene V. 

Alphonso. Antonio. 

Anto. What mad enthusiasm ! How he raves 

About his character and destiny ! 

The youth fancies himself an elected being, 

To whom all is permitted. Punish him ; 

The man shall thank you. 
Alph. Too far, I fear, 

His punishment is carried. 
Anto. If thou repentest, 

Give him his sword. Let that decide between us. 
Alph. Perhaps I may decide on that. Tell truly 

How thou didst irritate him so. 
Anto. I cannot 

Explain to thee. Though as a man I might 

Have pained him, as a nobleman I did not 

Offend his honor. Nor by words did he 

Insult me in his passion. 
Alph. What you say 

Confirms me in my first impression. When 

Such difference has risen, 'tis just to blame 

The wisest most. Thou shouldst have borne with him, 

Enlightened him. Nor is it now too late. 

I wish for peace among my friends. 'Tis easy, 

If thou wilt lend thy aid. Let Sanvitali 

Soothe him with soft words ; then go thou to him, 

And free him in my name, and offer him thy friendship ; 

Speak to him as thou shouldst, and show paternal kindness. 

Easily couldst thou win his worthy heart. 

When we are gone, the ladies will complete 



400 THE DRAMA 0* 

The good work that thou must begin. I see 
Thou art the old Antonio. No sooner 
One intricate affair is brought to end, 
Than thou beginn'st another. Might but this 
Terminate happily as thy embassy. 
Anto. I am ashamed, and see, in thy clear judgment 
My error mirrored, and obedience follows 
The noble master who prefers convincing, 
Where he has power to command our wills. 



ACT III. 

Scene L 

The Princess. (Alone.) 

Prin. Where tarries Leonora ? Every moment 
Perturbs me more. I cannot learn distinctly 
What happened — which of them was faulty. 
Does she delay ? I must not meet my brother 
Or Antonio, till I have composed myself, 
And will not be till I know the truth. 



Scene II. 

Enter Leonora. 

Prin. How was it, Leonora ? What has happened ? 

How fares our friend ? 
Leon. I learned no more 

Than we had heard. Tasso had drawn, thy brother 



TORQUATO TASSO. 401 

Came in and separated them ; 'tis said 
Tasso began the strife, for he was sent 
To his apartment as a prisoner. 
Antonio is free, and with thy brother. 

Prin. I know Antonio must have injured him, 

Or, cold and distant, jarred his excited mind. 

Leon. I doubt it not. A cloud was on his brow 
Just as they met. 

Prin. Why do we 

Neglect the soft voice of the heart ? A God 

Speaks in the heart, but we forget to listen, 

Though nought so clearly can disclose to us 

What we should seek, what shun. Antonio 

Appeared this morning even more reserved 

And blunt than usual ; and my heart gave warning 

As Tasso near him stood. See but the outward guise 

Of both ! The face, the voice, the look, the tone, 

How different, and how discordant framed ! 

Ah, hope deceived me ; they could ne'er be friends. 

Both are intelligent, noble, well-nurtured, 

My friends. I hoped to bind them close to one another , 

I beckoned Tasso on. How eagerly, 

How warmly, sought he to fulfil my wish ! 

Had I but spoken to Antonio first ! 

I felt reluctant, just at his return, 

In these first hours to introduce the subject. 

I trusted in his courtesy, nor feared, 

In a wise man, a boy's impetuosity. 

Well, it is over ; and these thoughts are vain. 

Advise me what I now can do. 

Leon. How hard 

It is to advise well, thou must surely feel, 
34* 



402 THE DRAMA OF 

After what thou hast said. No misunderstanding 
Is this between like-minded men. Such difference 
Words might accommodate, or arms if needful. 
These must be enemies, I long have felt ; 
Because Dame Nature did not will the two 
Should, meeting, form a whole. Yet might it be, 
Could they be wise, and balance one another. 
The whole thus made might lead a world in chains. 
This thought is bootless, though we may compose 
The quarrel of to-day. This was but earnest 
Of what must be. 'Twere best if Tasso journeyed 
For some short space from hence either to Rome 
Or Florence, where I soon shall go, and might 
Exert a friendly influence on his spirits. 
Thou here might'st mollify Antonio, 
And time, perhaps, would do the rest. 

Prin. Thy plan 

Takes from me what it gives to thee. Is that 
Quite just, my friend ? 

Leon. It takes from thee 

What thou couldst not enjoy in present circumstances 
If thou retain'st it. 

Prin. So coolly shall I 

Banish a friend ? 

Leon. Thou wilt receive him back 

More happy. 

Prin. I know my brother never 

Will give consent. 

Leon. If we persuade him 

He will. 

Prin. Condemn my friend ! 

Leon. To save him. 



TORQUATO TASSO. 403 

Prin. No ; I cannot say yes. 

Leon. Not to avert such evil ? 

Prin. Thou art not sure that what gives me such pain 
Will do him good. 

Leon. That we shall see. 

Prin. Urge me no more ! 

Leon. Who firmly can resolve 

Conquers each obstacle. 

Prin. Well, he shall go, 

But soon return, and we must have a care 
That the duke give order for his maintenance 
Abroad as here. Do thou persuade Antonio 
To forget his wrath and influence my brother. 

Leon. A word from thee, princess, would more avail 
Than all that I could say. 

Prin. Thou knowest, Leonora, 

I am not like my sister of Urbino, 
And cannot beg for myself or those I love. 
I ask but peace, and thankfully receive 
My generous brother's gifts, but never seek them. 
One of my friends has often scolded me. 
" Call'st thou this disinterestedness, she says, 
To neglect thy friends' need as thine own ? " In silence 
I suffer the reproach, nor can resolve 
To take another course. But now, most luckily, 
A part of what I inherit from my mother 
Is due, and I am free to aid my friend. 

Leon. And I will be thy steward ; for we know 
Our Tasso is no manager. 

Prin. Take him, then, 

If I must part from him. Before all others 
I would to thee resign him, and I see 



404 THE DRAMA OF 

That it is best to do so. So I must 
Practise again that lore of resignation 
, I have been conning from my earliest years. 
It is not hard for me to lose, for never 
Feel I security in the possession 
Of any precious thing. 

Leon. I hope to see thee happy, 

As thou so greatly dost deserve to be. 

Prin. Happy ! My Leonora, who is happy ? 

My brother I might deem so ; his strong heart 

With fortitude bears each decree of fate. 

But he has ne'er received what he deserved. 

My sister of Urbino — is she happy ? 

The beautiful, the noble, the high-minded — 

Had she but children, she indeed were happy. 

But as it is, her youthful husband's business 

Can ne'er make her forget his disappointment ; 

No joy dwells in their house. Our mother's wisdom, 

Her knowledge, her bright wit and generosity — 

Could they preserve her from bewilderment ? 

They took her children from her, and she died 

Unreconciled with God, and far from us. 

Leon. Think not of all which to each soul is wanting ; 

But think what they possess — how rich, my princess, 
Art thou. 

Prin. One word, Leonora, 

Tells all my riches — patience is my wealth, 
Accumulating since my earliest youth. 
When all my friends, my brother and my sister, 
Joined in the dance and merry roundelay, 
Sickness and sadness were my boon companions, 
Who, in my lonely chamber, sat with me ; 



TORQUATO TASSO. 405 

Yet I had my songs, too, lending their sweetness 
Even to that forlorn estate ; and music 
For a time charmed away the thought of pain. 
But soon did my physician send from me 
That gentle soother to my sufferings. 

Leon. But many hearts clave to thee even then, 

And now thou'rt well, and feelest life more fully 
Than if thou always hadst been so. 

Prin. I am well ; 

That is, I am not sick, and many friends 
Tenderly minister to me — and one I had — 

I<ion. Thou hast him yet. 

Vrin. But soon must lose him. What significance 
Lay in the moment of our meeting first ! 
But lately freed from pain and sickness, coyly 
I looked back upon life — the light of day 
And of loved faces gladdened me again — 
I sipped hope's sweetest balsam. Friendly forms 
From the fair future leaned and beckoned me. 
Came to me from the distance, by my sister 
Conducted, came this youth to me. The soul 
Was open to receive him, and must ever 
Retain him in her hall of imagery. 

Leon. Repent not of that hour. To know the good 
Is happiness which fate can ne'er tear from us. 

Prin. The lovely, the superlatively good 

Is like the fire, which, blazing on thy hearth, 
Or from thy torch gives pleasure to thy dwelling, 
Never to be dispensed with when once known. 
But let it leave the spot which was reserved 
For its abiding place, rove through thy chambers, 
How dangerous, how fatal ! O my friend, 



406 THE DRAMA OF 

I talk too much, and ought to hide from thee 
How weak, how sick I am ! 

Leon. Through confidence 

Is sickness of the mind solaced. 

Prin. Could it 

Be cured through confidence, I soon were well, 

For mine in thee is perfect. Let him go. 

But ah ! the lonely days that I must pass — 

The sun no longer chasing from my eyelids 

The dream which painted him. No hope of meeting 

Shall fill the awaking soul with joy and eagerness. 

I shall look for him in each shady alley, 

And look in vain. How sweet the anticipation 

Of passing with him the calm evening hours, 

With every conversation still increasing 

The desire to know each other more completely, 

And each new day bringing new harmony 

To our accordant souls ! Now all is dark. 

The splendor of the sun, the life of day, 

The thousand-sided world, its changing images 

And glittering presence mantled o'er by night. 

Once every day was as a separate life, 

Care and fear distant far. We rudderless 

Sailed, joyous-carolling, on the sea of Time ; 

But now, a cloudy future fills my breast 

Like a tormenting present. 

Leon. The future 

Shall bring thy friend, and with him fairer days 
Than those thou mournest now, as fled forever. 

Prin. I should prefer keeping what I possess ; 
Change may be entertaining, seldom useful. 
With youthful longing did I never seek 



TORQUATO TASSO. 407 

To draw now lots from the urn of the great world. 

Seeking new objects for a craving heart, 

I venerated him, and therefore loved him. 

I loved him, too, because near him my life 

Assumed a beauty never known before. 

At first I thought, I will remove from him ; 

But my resolve gave way. I drew still nearer, 

So sweetly lured, now so severely punished. 

And some bad spirit fills my cup of joy 

With bitter beverage from a kindred vine 

To that whose juice I late delighted quaffed. 

Leon. The world's strong influence and Time the comforter 
Will do for thee what friendly words cannot. 

Priii. The world ! ah, what fair things move on its surface, 
And oft seem but a step removed from us, 
And lead us step by step on to the grave 
Of all our longings, all our hopes ! How seldom 
Men find what Nature seems to have formed for them — 
Or hold such when obtained ! They leave us or we lose 

them. 
We find a treasure, and we know it not ; 
Or, if we know it, it is taken from us. 



Scene III. 

Leonora, alone. 

Leon. The generous heart ! how gloomy is her lot ! 
Unmerited by such a noble being. 
Ah ! is it by her loss I seek to win ? 
And shall I selfishly monopolize 
The heart, the talents, which I share with her, 



408 THE DRAMA OP 

Though not in equal measure ? Is this honorable ? 

Am I not rich enough ? Have I not all ? 

Husband and son, beauty, and wealth, and rank — 

All these I have, and I must have him too. 

I love him then ! I blush not at the avowal. 

How sweet to gaze into his beauteous mind ! 

A happiness immortalized by him, 

Charms hallowed in his lay, indeed have claim to envy ! 

Not only to possess what others sigh for, 

But every one shall know my luck ; my name 

Be echoed through my fatherland, and this 

Is consummation of all other happiness. 

Let Laura boast her Petrarch ! I would not 

Exchange with her. The after-world be judge. 

How splendid, in the flush of present life 

To approach with him the no less brilliant future ! 

Time, age, and rumor have no power o'er him, 

And all he touches shares his attributes. 

I still shall be adored, living and lovely, 

When by the circling hours my real charms 

Have, one by one, been stolen away. O, yes, 

He must be mine ! I take so little from her. 

Her inclination for this worthy man 

Is like her other feelings, whose pale moonlight 

Falls coldly on the wanderer's path, nor sheds 

One ray of mirth or joy. She will be happy 

If he is distant, and content as when 

He daily wandered at her side ; nor will I 

Leave her, or take him quite away from her. 

I will return sometimes. It shall be so. 

Here comes my rougher friend. 'Tis I must soften him. 



TORQUATO TASSO. 409 



Scene IV. 



Leonoka. Antonio. 

Leon. Thou bring'st us war instead of peace. 'Twould seem 
Thou earnest from a camp, a field of battle, 
Where strength has empire, and commands the sword, 
Rather than Rome, where solemn benedicites 
Soften each fiat of tremendous power. 

Anto. I am to blame, fair friend ; yet pardon me. 
'Tis dangerous always to be so prudent, 
Always upon one's guard, and vigilant ; 
The evil genius, lurking near, demands 
A sacrifice from time to time : unhappily, 
This time I make it at my friend's expense. 

Leon. Thou hast so long held intercourse with strangers, 
Bringing thyself in close contact with minds 
Of different poise and fabric, now thy friends 
Much feel the inconvenience of such habits. 

Anto. There is the danger, my sweet friend ; with strangers 
We are reserved, observing ; seeking still 
To make their favor subserve to our aims. 
With friends we're free, confiding in their love ; 
Indulge each freak of fancy, and thus injure 
Most frequently the beings we most love. 

Leon. I joy to find thee in tranquil mood, 
Which brings back these reflections. 

Anto. Yes, I am vexed 

That I have acted so intemperately. 
But it is trying to a man who comes 
Heated and weary from his toil, and seeks 
The refreshing shade, to nerve himself anew, 
35 



410 THE DRAMA OF 

To find an idler stretched at length beneath 
The sheltering tree he looked to. Is't surprising 
If in his bosom dwells some transient anger ? 

Leon. Didst thou feel rightly, thou wouldst gladly share 
The shade with one who your repose might gladden 
By eloquent discourse or melody. 
The tree is broad, my friend. There's room enough. 

Anto. This simile doth but o'ercloud our meaning 
And ward off the conclusion, Leonora. 
Many of this world's goods I am content 
To share with others ; but there is a treasure 
I could not share but with the well-deserving. 
There is another which not willingly 
I would share with the best deserving. Wouldst thou 
The names of these two treasures ? Hear ! The laurel 
And woman's favor. 

Leon. Did the crown 

On the youth's brow offend so grave a man ? 

For his long labor, his sweet poesy, 

Could a more meet reward have been devised ? 

A merit that is supernatural, based 

On aerial tones, and the fair pictures, offspring 

Of an excited fancy ; by a symbol 

He should be recompensed ; and if he hardly 

Touches the earth in resting from his flight, 

The unfruitful laurel hardly touched his head, 

Fit emblem of the unfruitful admiration 

Which is his portion ; and around the heads 

Of martyrs thou art pleased to see the halo, 

And laurel crowns are not for happy hearts. 

Anto. Thy sweet mouth, haply, all this variety 
May teach me to contemn. 



TORQUATO TASSO. 411 

Leon. At its just rate 

To prize each good thing needed not to teach thee. 

But even the wisest sometimes need fresh lectures 

Upon the value of their own possessions, 

Which cease to shine, familiar to the eye. 

What seek'st thou for a phantom with thy jealousy 

Of favor and of honor ? Could the prince 

Or could thy friends spare or supply thy services ? 

As real and as living as those services 

Should be their guerdon. Could a laurel garland 

Add honor to the prince's confidence, 

The people's confidence, so lightly borne, 

So fully justified ? 

Anto. The smile of beauty 

Would gild my honors fairly ; what of that ? 

Leon. Thou couldst dispense with that better than Tasso. 
Wise, self-collected, need'st thou tender care ? 
What can a woman do for thee ? Round thee 
Reign order and security. For thyself 
Thou carest as for others. Hast already 
All we would give thee. But the bard requires 
Those small attentions women love to render. 
The thousand things he wants, a woman finds 
Such pleasure in providing. Though he fain 
Would have the finest linen, richest silks, 
Nay, even embroidery, and ill endures 
Aught coarse or servile near him, yet he knows not 
The ways and means to gratify his tastes. 
When he has reached a thing, he cannot keep it ; 
Is always lacking either gold or care. 
He is so heedless that he never takes 
A journey without losing the third part 



412 THE DRAMA OP 

Of his attire and ornaments. At home 

His servants steal from him. And thus it happens 

One must be thinking for him all the while. 

Anto And thus his very faults make him beloved. 
Fortunate he, whose foibles are deemed 
So charming, who in manhood is permitted 
To play the boy, and be for weakness praised. 
Pardon some little bitterness, my fair one. 
Thou dost him less than justice, if thou tell'st not 
How provident he is in one respect : 
'Tis said he is provided with two loves, 
And, playing off the one against the other, 
Holds them both fast by petty artifice. 
Should this be true ? 

Leon. What surer proof could be 

That simply friendship governs us ? But why 
Should we not love the ardent soul which lives 
And breathes its beauteous world of dreams for us, 
For us alone ? 

Anto. Well, spoil him as thou wilt ; 

His selfishness reward with love ; neglect 
The friends who dedicate their true souls to you ; 
Pay homage to the proud one ; break forever 
The circle drawn by tender confidence. 

Leon. Nay, we are not so blindly partial, neither. 
We know the failings of our friend, and oft 
Rebuke and try to form him to a state 
Where he more fully may enjoy himself, 
And pleasure others. 

Anto. Yet praise his faults. 

I've known him long ; for easy 'tis to scan 
A soul too haughty to hide aught. Sometimes 






TORQUATO TASSO. 413 

He sinks into himself, as if his bosom 

Contained a world more lovely than the outward, 

Which he repulses or forgets. Then, suddenly, 

Let joy or grief, anger, or only whim 

Cast the least spark, the hidden mine blows up. 

He will seize every thing, hold every thing ; 

Will have his thoughts fulfilled ; claims on the moment 

What years of preparation might produce ; 

And often, too, does what years of repentance 

Cannot repair. He asks the impossible 

From himself as others. The results of all things 

He all at once would seize and comprehend. 

Scarce one among a million can do this, 

And he is not that one. 

Leon. Himself he hurts ; 

Not others. 

Anto. Ah yes, others ! 

Canst thou deny that in the moods of passion, 
Which come so unexpectedly upon him, 
He dares to scorn, reviles the prince himself, 
And even the princess ? Granted that his anger 
Is transient ; these bad moments come too often. 
Nor has he mastery o'er his heart or lips. 

Leon. I think it would be well for him and us 

Were he removed for some short space from court. 

Anto. Perhaps so, perhaps not. This is no time. 
I would not seem to wish his banishment : 
I'll trouble him no more ; and if he will 
Be reconciled with me, and hear my counsel, 
I'll compass more tranquillity for us all. 

Leon. Talk'st thou of counselling ? I deem but now 
Thou didst portray him as impracticable. 
35* 



414 THE DRAMA OP 

Anlo. Yet still I hope. In any case 'tis better 
To hope than to despair. Of possibilities 
Who gives account ? Besides, as the prince loves him, 
He must remain. And if in vain we strive 
To mould him to our wishes, we have long 
Been trained to tolerate such companions. 

Leon. So calm, 

So passionless, I had not hoped to find you : 
A mighty change, methinks. 

Anto. My riper years 

Have the advantage ; if I go astray, 
Experience shows how to repair my error. 
But now thou wishedst that we might be reconciled, 
I pray thee to continue thy good offices. 
Strive to bring Tasso to a calmer mood, 
And call me when he is prepared to meet me ; 
Go to him now, for we set forth to-night. 
Farewell. 

Leon. [Alone.) We differ, then, good friend ; 
My interest and thine cannot be linked. 
I'll use the hour, and win him to my side. 



act iv: 



Scene I. — Chamber. 



Ta* 9. (Alone.) Am I awakened from a dream ? And has 
Its sweet illusion fled forever ? Is it 
That heavy slumber seized me in the noon, 
The overpowering blaze, of happiness, 






TORQUATO TASSO. 415 

Which fetters still my eyelids ? Those gay hours 

That, crowned with roses, played about my head, 

Where are they fled ? and those in which my soul, 

With eagle longing, winged its upward flight 

To realms of bluest ether? They are fled ; 

And yet I live, if life it may be called. 

And is it my own fault that I am here ? 

Or do I suffer being innocent ? 

Nay, was't not a good act incurred this punishment ? 

I was too hasty to bespeak his favor. 

Deceived by that false faith of heart which deems 

That all of human face and form are men, 

I rushed to his embrace with open arms, 

And met hard bolts and padlocks, not a breast. 

I should have fortified myself with calm reserve 

Against a man I always had suspected : 

But be that as it will — one certainty 

Remains with me, ne'er to be blotted out. 

She talked with me — she stood near me. Her look, 

Her tones, and the dear memory of her words, 

These are forever mine ; nor time, nor fate, 

Nor wildest change can ever steal them from me. 

And though my love were boldness, though too lightly 

I gave a flame admittance to my bosom 

Which may consume my life and mar my fortunes, 

Yet I can ne'er repent, or wish it otherwise. 

When my heart's idol gave the beck, I followed, 

Not heeding though the path led to destruction. 

So be it. I at least showed myself worthy 

Of her most precious confidence, which came 

Like incense to my soul,, and breathes there still, 

Even in this hour when, harshly grating, open 



416 THE DRAMA OP 

The black-draped portals of long-mourning time. 
'Tis done — the sun of favor set forever ! 
The prince has turned away his face from me, 
And I must walk a gloomy, narrow path ; 
And they, the hideous and ambiguous brood, 
The worthy offspring of old night, fly round me, 
And raise their hateful note to screech my ruin. 
Where shall I turn to shun these loathed attendants ? 
How 'scape the precipice that yawns for me ? 



Scene II. 

Leonora. Tasso. 

Leon. Ah, what has happened ? Whither, dearest friend, 
Have jealousy and anger hurried thee ? 
How has it happened ? We are all amazed. 
Thy sweetness and thy kindly tone of feeling ; 
Thy swift perception, and clear understanding, 
Which gave to each his due ; thy equanimity, 
Teaching to bear what is so hard to vanity ; 
And thy wise mastery o'er tongue and lips, — 
Where were they all, my friend, this luckless day ? 

Tasso. They all are gone ; thou find'st thy friend a beggar. 
Yes, thou art right ; I am no more myself — 
Yet know I am not less than what I was. 
This seems a riddle, but I can explain it. 
The still moon that enchanted thee at night, 
To soul, to sense, alluring and yet soothing, 
By day is but a cloud, pale, insignificant, 
Before the sun's broad glare. And thus with me ; 
I've lost my lustre since the glare of day. 



TOBQUATO TASSO. 417 

Leon. I do not understand thy meaning — speak 

More frankly. Say, has that harsh man so sickened thee 
That thou forgettest thy friends ? Wilt thou not trust me ? 

Tasso. I'm not the injured. I must be the injurer, 

Since I am punished. Knots that words have tied 
The sword might loose ; but I — I am a prisoner ! 
Know'st thou thy visit is paid to a prison ? 
The prince chastises me as pedagogues 
Their pupils, and with him I may not reckon. 

Leon. Thou seem'st more deeply moved than the case calls for. 

Tasso. Think not I am so weak, so childish weak, 
To be so moved by such an incident ; 
But for the state of things which it betokens. 
Yet let my enviers, my foes, beware ; 
The field is free and open. 

Leon. But mistakenly 

Such deem'st thou many, as I surely know ; 
Nor is Antonio so minded' towards thee 
As thou believest. 

Tzsso. And if it be so, 

I can't endure his character, and always 

Shrink from encountering his stiff worldliness, 

And that he always seeks to play the master, 

Nor waits to know the riches of his hearers, 

But tells you what you better knew before. 

He hears not what you say, or misinterprets it ; 

And so to be mistaken by such arrogance, 

Smiling and fancying he knows you wholly, — 

Has read you at a glance ! — I am not old enough, 

Patient or wise enough, to smile it back 

With answering thoughts. And since, perforce, we must 

Have broken asunder, better now than later. 



418 THE DRAMA OF 

Thy prince, the lord who fosters and sustains me, 
He is my master, and I know no other. 
Free will I be in thought and poesy ; 
In acting, the world limits us sufficiently. 

Leon. Antonio oft speaks of thee with esteem. 

Tasso. O, no ! he speaks with kindness, thou shouldst say, 
Or some such word. He knows how to insert 
Such smooth qualifications that his praise 
Doth turn to blame ; nor would aught vex me more 
Than praise misused by such a mouth. 

Leon. Yet hadst thou 

But heard as I how fitly he could talk 
Of thy exalted talents, thou wouldst not 
Have called it praise misused. 

Tasso. A selfish mind 

Cannot escape the pangs of envy. Such 
Can pardon others' wealth and rank ; for these 
They think they may obtain themselves, if chance 
Favor them in their turn ; but gifts which Nature 
Alone can give, which neither toil nor patience, 
Valor nor wealth, nor prudence can attain, 
They cannot pardon others their possession. 
Shall he love them in me ? — he who vainly 
Has paid his stiff and formal court to the Muses, 
And as he the thoughts, culled from many poets, 
Together binds — tasteless amalgamation ! — 
Fancies that he is one ; can he forgive me 
My natural gift ? No ! Far more willingly 
Would he resign to me the prince's favor, 
Which yet he gladly would monopolize, 
Than that prerogative with which the Nine 
Endowed the poor and orphan youth. 






TORQUATO TASSO. 419 

Leon. Sawest. thou 

But with mine eyes ! Indeed thou art deceived. 
Tasso. Well, then, I would remain so. I regard him 

As my worst foe, and most unwillingly 

Should I think milder of him. It is folly 

To aim at perfect impartiality. 

Freedom from prejudices, if entire, 

Destroys originality of mind. 

Are other men so just in judging us ? 

No, no. Man must have in his narrow being 

The double impulses of love and hatred. 

Are there not day and night ? sleeping and waking ? 

And I must hate this man — must have the pleasure 

Still worse and worse to think of him. 
Leon. Unless 

You check these feelings, how, my friend, is't possible 

You should continue at this court ? You know 

He cannot be dispensed with here. 
Tasso. Fair one, I know 

I might have been long since. 
Leon. Never ! 

Thou knowest how dear is thy society 

Both to the prince and princess. And Leonora 

Comes hither for thy sake almost as much 

As theirs so near in blood. And they all love 

And trust thee fully. 
Tasso. Trust me ? 

O Leonora ! what a word is that ! 

Speaks the prince ever of his state affairs, 

Of aught of consequence, to me ? Or if 

He speaks of such before me to his sister. 

Or other friends, he never turns to me. 



420 THE DRAMA OP 

'Tis always, " When Antonio comes we'll do it ; " 

" Write to Antonio ; " " Ask Antonio." 
Leon. Wilt thou complain where there's such cause for grat- 
itude ? 

Is it no compliment to leave thee free, 

Requiring nought but thy society ? 
Tasso. He leaves me free because he thinks me useless. 
Leon. Thou art not useless even when thou art 

To all appearance quite inactive. But 

Why is it that you cherish this chagrin, 

Like a beloved child, close to the heart ? 

Thou art not happy here where chance has planted thee ; 

I long have thought it. If I dared advise thee, 

I'd say, Leave for a while this place. 
Tasso. Spare not 

Thy patient, sweet physician ; give the draught, 

Though it be bitter. But can he recover ? 

O, no ! I see he is beyond all remedy. 

If I could pardon your Antonio 

He would not me ; and he it is is needed, 

Not I. And he is prudent ; I, alas, 

Too much the opposite. So he can harm me ; 

I know not to resist, nor do my friends 

Attempt it. They are wise, and I will go. 

The thought that you so lightly could resign me 

Will lend me strength and courage : so, farewell ! 
Leon. At distance placed, things show in fair proportion^ 

Which look confused seen nearer. Some day thou 

Wilt learn to prize the love which here flowed on thee, 

And which no other scene shall e'er supply. 
Tasso. That will I try. I will know the world's way ; 

How easily it leaves one lonely, helpless, 






TOIiQUATO TASSO. 421 

And like the sun, and moon, and other idols, 

Runs on its course, nor casts a look behind. 
Leon. If thou wouldst listen to my counsels, Tasso, 

Thou never need'st repeat the sad experience ; 

If thou wilt go to Florence, I myself 

Will tenderly care for thy comfort. I 

Set forth to-morrow, there to join my husband. 

He would rejoice to see thee my companion. 

Thou knowest what a prince that city boasts ; 

What noble men, what lovely women. Couldst thou 

Be happy there ? Reflect, and then decide. 
Tasso. Thy plan has charms ; it is conformable 

To certain secret wishes of my soul. 

But 'tis so new, I cannot answer yet. 
Leon. Well, I will leave thee with the fairest hopes 

For thee and me, and for this house : I do not 

Believe thou canst contrive a better plan. 
Tasso. Yet stay one moment, fairest friend, and say, 

How is the princess minded towards me ? 

Speak freely. Is she angry ? Doth she blame me ? 
Leon. Knowing thee well, she easily acquits thee. 
Tasso. Doth she esteem me less ? Flatter me not. 
Leon. A woman's heart is not so lightly altered. 
Tasso. Can she be willing, then, to let me go ? 
Leon. She wishes thee to go for thine own sake. 
Tasso. Shall I not lose the prince's grace forever ? 
Leon. Thou mayst trust in his magnanimity. 
Tasso. We leave the princess quite alone. Thou goest, 

And I, though little to her, yet was something. 
Leon. We have companionship with distant friends, 

If we can know them happy ; nor shalt thou 

Depart from hence dissatisfied. The prince 
36 



422 THE DRAMA OF 

Commands Antonio to seek thee. He 
Now blames himself for his past bitterness. 
I pray thee, meet him calmly when he comes. 

Tasso. There is no mood in which I may not meet him. 

Leon. And would to Heaven, my dear friend, thy eyes 
Might e'er be opened to the truth, 
That in thy fatherland there's not a being 
Would hate, or persecute, or injure thee. 
Thou errest greatly in these thoughts : thy fancy, 
Which framed such beauteous fabrics to delight 
The hearts of others, here, alas ! has woven 
Sad-colored ones to thine own hurt. I'll do 
All that I can to disentangle them, 
And make thee free and gladsome. Now, farewell ' 
I hope a favorable answer from thee. 



Scene III. 

Tasso, alone. 

Tasso So ! when I'm calm and sane, I shall perceive 
Nobody persecutes me — I have no enemy. 
These are chimeras of my troubled brain ! 
I shall acknowledge I do great injustice 
To real friends, in treating them as foes, 
This hour, which, clear as noonday sun, displays 
My injuries. Their malice should have taught me 
To praise their kindness. I should thank the prince 
For his large bounty, at the very moment 
He weakly suffers his eyes to be blinded, 
And his hand guided by my enemy. 
How he has been deceived he cannot see. 






TORQUATO TASSO. 423 

vVho the deceivers are I cannot show. 

He could so easily admit their influence, 

They are so crafty. Shall I, then, keep still, 

Or wholly yield ? Who is't advises this ? 

Who with such seeming tenderness would lead me ? 

Leonora Sanvitali — the soft siren. 

I know her now ! Why did I listen to her i 

Do I not know her wily heart, still turning 

To all that brings her favor and advantage ? 

How willingly I have deceived myself 

About her, also ! Yes ! 'twas really vanity 

Cheated me so. I knew her, and yet trusted her. 

She may be false to others. I would think 

To me her heart is warm, and will be faithful. 

I understand her now, although too late. 

Her heart was warm towards the favored one — 

Was faithful to my luck. Now I arn fallen, 

Sjhe turns from me to join the fortunate. 

Now comes she as the agent of my foe, 

Steals in and hisses out her sugared words. 

The smooth-tongued snake ! How gracefully she 

did it! 
How sweetly counterfeited love ! Yet could not 
The hollow flattery deceive me long. 
Falsehood was written on her brow ; and soon 
I feel it when one seeks unfair advantage 
Over my heart. I shall depart immediately — 
Shall go to Florence. And wherefore to Florence ? 
I understand it all. There reign the Medici. 
They're not, indeed, at open variance 
With the house of Este ; yet do jealousy 
And envy, with cold hands, hold them asunder. 



424 THE DRAMA OP 

Should I be honored by that noble prince 

With marks of favor, such as I may surely 

Expect from him, the courtiers of Alphonso 

Could easily deprive me of his favor. 

Yes, I will go, but not as you advise ; 

I will away, and farther than you think. 

Why am I here ? What now detains me here ? 

Each word I understand so perfectly 

Which I allured from Leonora's lips. 

I took in every syllable, and now know 

Precisely what the princess thinks. " Despair not , 

She wishes thee to go for thine own sake." 

O, felt she rather an o'ermastering passion, 

Rending its way unthinking of my safety ! 

More welcome the cold hand of death than hers 

Which can so willingly let go my hold ; 

As cold and stiff indeed. Yes, yes, I go. 

Now guard thyself, and let no new illusion # 

Of friendship or of happiness deceive thee. 

No man can cheat thee if thy false heart aid not. 



Scene IV. 

Tasso. Antonio. 

Anlo. I have come hither, Tasso, to talk with thee, 

If thou canst quietly give ear to me. 
Tasso. Since I'm debarred from acting, as thou knowest, 

Waiting and hearing must become me well. 
Anto. I find thee then composed, as was my wish, 

And shall speak frankly. First of all, I break, 

In the prince's name, the weak band that confines thee. 



TORQUATO TASSO. 425 

Tasso. Caprice, which took my freedom, now restores it. 

I must accept it so, and ask no questions. 
Anto. Then, for myself I have, it seems, impelled 

By passion, wounded thee unconsciously, 

Not feeling at the time the venom of my words ; 

But no insulting phrase escaped my lips. 

Thou art not injured as a nobleman, 

And as a man wilt not refuse the pardon 

I come to crave. 
Tasso. Which is most cruel, 

To wound me in my feelings or mine honor, 

I'll not inquire. The one scratches the skin, 

The other pierces to the marow. Easily 

The dart is turned on him who shot it. 

The opinion of the world is satisfied 

By a well-guided sword. A sickened heart 

What remedy shall heal ? I 

Anto. Yet let me urge thee — 

I but express the prince's wish, who sent me. 
Tasso. I know my duty, and must yield. I pardon thee 

As far as in me lies. Some say the sword, 

By friendly touch, can heal the wounds it made. 

This power man's tongue possesses, nor through stub- 
bornness 

Would I retard my cure. 
Anto. I thank thee, and would gladly prove the extent 

Of my good will to thee. Say, is there aught 

Which I can do in furtherance of thy wishes ? 
Tasso. Thou bring'st me freedom ! Wilt thou aid to use it ? 
Anto. Express thy meaning more distinctly. 
Tasso. Thou knowest 

I've brought my poem to an end ; yet much it wants 
36* 



426 THE DRAMA OP 

To its completion. When, to-day, 

I showed it to the prince, I meant to have proffered 

A request that I might have permission now to visit 

My friends in Rome. In letters they have sent me 

Various criticisms on my work. 

Some I adopted ; with regard to others, 

Remain more doubtful, and would fain discuss them 

With my accomplished censors satisfactorily, 

Which I, in writing, cannot do. To-day 

I found no fitting time to ask the prince, 

And am no longer confident enough. 

But wouldst thou undertake to do it for me ? 

Anto. But is it, then, desirable to go 

Just at the moment when thy poem's close, 
So long expected, highly recommends thee 
To the favor of the prince and princess. For 
The days of favor are the days of harvest. 
One must be busy, and not leave the field ; 
If thou goest now, thou probably mayst lose 
The fruit of all thy labor past. The princess 
A mighty goddess is, nor must be slighted. 
Respect her influence, and remain with us. 

Tasso. I do not fear to go. The prince is noble ; 
Has always treated me with generosity. 
From his heart alone would I receive a favor, 
Nor would propitiate him by artifice, 
Or watching of his moods. So shall he never 
Learn to repent what he has done for me. 

Anto. Yet do not now ask his consent to go ; 

He will refuse, or grant it most unwillingly. 

Tasso. He'll give it willingly, if rightly asked. 
Thou mightst obtain it if thou wouldst. 



TORQUATO TASSO. 427 

Ania. Thy reasons 

He will not think sufficient. 
Tasso. My poem 

Doth render one in every stanza. High 

Is placed my aim, though perhaps unattainable 

To powers like mine. In diligence and toil 

I've not been wanting. In the quiet walks 

Of the fair day, the stillness of the night, 

Still I was weaving, coloring, my lay. 

In all humility I strove to emulate 

The great masters of the former world. I hoped 

The noble deeds of a more modern time 

To revive from the long sleep that had o'erpowered them, 

And with my heroic warriors to share 

The glory of their holy war. And if 

The lay be destined to awake the best, 

It must be also worthy of the best. 

'Twas Alphonso inspired what I have written ; 

Now let him give me space for its perfection. 
Anto. Are there in Rome, then, more accomplished critics 

Than in the prince and others of Ferrara ? 

Finish thy poem here, then go to Rome 

To enjoy the fruits of thy success. 
Tasso. As was Alphonso 

The first to inspire me, he shall be the last 

To instruct me. Thy opinion, too, and those 

Of the wise men who grace this court, I honor. 

You shall be umpires when my Roman friends 

Fail to produce conviction. These I wish 

Also to hear. Gonzaga has assembled 

A noble council for my trial : Bargo, 

Antonio, and Speron Speroni, 



428 THE DRAMA OP 

Angelio, Flaminio de Nobili, — 

Names doubtless known to thee. My mind would will 

ingly 
Submit to their decision. 

Anto. Thou art so occupied 

With thine own feelings thou forgett'st the prince. 
I tell thee he will not give leave, or, if 
He does, it will be angry. And shall I 
Become the means to draw his wrath upon thee ? 

Tasso. So thou refusest the first time, I ask 
A proof of thy late proffered friendship. 

Anto. Can I 

Give stronger proof of friendship than the present — 

Denying what I know would do thee harm ? 

'Tis a false love which cares to gratify 

The wishes of the loved, not taking heed 

Whether it be for lasting good or ill. 

Thou fanciest at this moment what thou wishest 

Must be the best thing possible. 'Tis thus 

We erring mortals strive through a chimera 

To remedy our want of power and truth. 

My duty bids me seek to moderate 

The heat which now is leading thee astr-ay. 

Tasso. This tyranny of friendship I esteem 
The most insufferable of all despotisms. 
Because thy opinion differs here from mine, 
Of course thou must be right. Although I doubt not 
Thou wishest my best good, yet do not ask 
That I shall seek it only in thy way. 

Anto. And dost thou then demand that in cold blood 
I do this which I know will work thee ill ? 

Tasso. Dismiss that care. Thou shalt not thus escape. 



TORQUATO TASSO. 429 

Thou hast declared me free. The door lies open. 
I go myself to the pi'ince if thou wilt not. 
The prince sets forth immediately ; here is 
No space for delay. Choose ! Be assured, 
If thou goest not, I shall, whate'er the result. 

Anto. Act not so rashly ! I will only ask 

That thou wilt wak until the prince retuiai. 
Speak not so suddenly, lest thou repent it. 

Tasso. This very hour I'll speak with him. My feet 
Burn on this marble flooring ; and my spirit 
Will not be pacified until the highways 
Cast up their dust around me, hastening hence. 
I pray thee go ! Thou seest I am unfit ; 
I cannot promise to command myself. 
Alphonso is no tyrant ; and, in happier days, 
I willingly obeyed him ; now, I cannot. 
Leave me in freedom to recall my senses, 
All scattered now, and I shall soon return 
To duty and my friends. 

Anto. Thou art then skilled 

In sophistry. I scarce know how to act. 

Tasso. If thou wouldst win my confidence, wouldst have me 
Trust in thy late fair-spoken words, grant now 
The boon I ask. At thy request, Alphonso «. 
Will, without anger, let me go ; and I 
Will warmly thank thy friendly intercession. 
But if thou still dost hate me, and wouldst have me 
A hapless exile from this court forever, — 
Helpless cast forth to the wide world, — thou canst not 
Take surer means to wreak thy vengeance on me, 
Than by refusing thy assistance here. 

Anto. Since thus obliged to harm thee one way, Tasso, 



430 THE DRAMA OP 

I take the one thou dost prefer. The issue 

Will show thee which was wrong, and which was prudent 

I say to thee, beforehand, that thou hardly 

Wilt leave this house behind, before thy heart 

Will sigh to turn again, although thy obstinacy 

May urge thee forward. Pain, confusion, sadness, 

Wait thee in Rome, where thou wilt miss thy aim. 

I do not say this to deter thee, only 

I prophesy to thee that I may promise 

T' assist thee in the troubles I foretell. 



Scene V. 

Tasso, alone. 

Tasso. Yes, go, and please thyself upon the way 

With thoughts how well and wisely thou hast talked. 

For once I have been able to dissemble. Thou 

Art a great master, and lam not slow 

In learning what I will. Thus life constrains us 

To seem the thing our flush of youthful courage 

Almost disdained to look upon. Now clearly 

I penetrate the screen of courtly policy. 

Antonio wishes me away, but will not 

Be seen to wish it ; thus he plays the moderator. 

The prudent, who would strengthen my weak judgmen 

Elects himself my guardian, and would lower me 

To childhood, since he could not quite to servitude ; 

Thus clouding o'er the piercing ken of the prince 

And princess. He thinks Nature, while endowing me 

With many splendid gifts, saw fit to balance 

Her grace by a large portion of like follies, 



TORQJATO TAS90. 431 

Unbounded pride, a gloomy turn of thought, 

And an exaggerated sensibility. 

*' But since his character is formed, we must 

Bear with him, pardon him, and hope the best ; 

So shall each good trait yield unlooked-for pleasure. 

And 'tis the only way ; for as he is 

Be sure he'll live and die." — And then, Alphonso, 

Where is the firm, clear mind, so steady towards 

His foes ; so faithful, tender to his friends ? 

It is my fate that e'en those who to others 

Show themselves kind and true, will turn from me, 

Will coldly leave me on most light occasion. 

Was not the coming of this man sufficient 

To alter all my fortunes in an hour ; 

Razing the palace of my happiness, 

Nor leaving one stone upon the other ? Ah, 

That it must be so ! must be so to-day ! 

But now I was the centre of a circle ; 

All things pressed towards me ; now all recede. 

But now each being in my circle's range 

Strove to draw near me, nay, to mingle with me. 

Now equally they strive to repulse or shun me. 

And wherefore ? Does this man carry such weight, 

Poised in the scale, 'gainst all my worth and love ? 

All fly me now. Thou too, beloved, thou, 

O princess of my soul, couldst thou forsake me ! 

Yes, yes, 'tis so ; or else she would have cheered 

These black hours by some token of remembrance. 

Yet how have I deserved it ? 'Twas too natural 

To this poor heart to love her. Her first tones 

Thrilled through that heart, and chained me here forevei . 

My eyes are dimmed whene'er I look upon her ; 



432 THE DRAMA OF 

My knees bend under me ; I scarce can stand 

Before the light of that divinest face. 

How has this heart bowed down in worship to her. 

And now, — hold firm, fond heart, — she too has left me. 

Excuse her, but dissemble not the truth. 

Yes, it is so ! and yet there is a breath 

Of faith within me fain would waft away 

These cold and leaden tidings. Yes, 'tis so, 

And fate, e'en now, is busy inscribing it 

On the brazen rim of the o'er-full grief tablet. 

Now are my enemies indeed triumphant, 

And I am driven from my chiefest stronghold — 

Must yield myself a captive to the squadrons. 

Her hand will not be stretched to raise the falling, 

Her radiant glance cast to reca-U the flying. 

Despair now has me in his talons : still 

Weeping I shall repeat, " Thou too — thou too /'* 



ACT V. 

Scene I. 

Alphonso. Antonio. 

Anto. At thy command, I went again to Tasso, 

And left him but a moment since. I urged him, 
Persuaded him ; but he is obstinate. 
Nothing will serve him but the asked permission 
To visit Rome for some short space. 

Alph. I grieve, 



TORQUATO TASSO. 433 

And 'tis as well to confess as to increase it 

By efforts at concealment. If he goes, 

The wily Medici, or else Gonzaga, 

Will be sure to entice and keep him from me. 

For this 'tis which enriches Italy, 

Beyond all other lands, with the productions 

Of genius in its varied workings, that 

Her princes strive who shall possess and favor 

The gifted men whose minds inform such works. 

A general without army is that prince 

Who attracts not men of genius to his banner ; 

And who the voice of Poesy loves not 

Is a barbarian, be he who he may. 

'Twas I discovered and developed genius 

In Tasso. 'Tis my pride that he's my servant ; 

And I have done so much for him that now 

To lose him is most grievous. 

Anto. And the fault 

Is mine, that I so needless angered him. 
I have to thank thy grace which pardons me ; 
I shall be comfortless if thou believe not 
That I have done my best to reconcile him. 
O, give me the assurance that thou dost so, 
That I may calm, may trust myself once more. 

Alph. Fear not, Antonio ; I cannot blame thee. 
I know as well his disposition as 
All I have done for him, and pardoned in him, 
Nor e'er constrained him, asking aught again. 
Much can man conquer ; his own will can only 
Adversity, or Time the underminer. 

Anto. When many toil for one, 'tis surely just 

That one should strive to return their favors, using 
37 



434 THE DRAMA OP 

What means he has for benefiting them. 

He has such a rich, adorned mind, 

Such hoards of knowledge, is he not more bound 

Than common men to live lord of himself? 

And does the poet e'er remember this ? 

Alph. Repose is not desirable to man, 

Thus foes are given him to stir his valor, 
And friends, as well, to exercise his patience. 

Anto. That simplest duty of a reasoning being, 

To choose what meat and drink are proper for him,— 

Since Nature does not limit man, as she 

Has done the other animals, by instinct, — 

Does he fulfil it ? No ; but like a child 

Swallows each viand which allures the palate. 

Who ever saw him temper wine with water ? 

Spices, sweet things, strong drink, he likes them all — 

So takes them all, not heeding consequences ; 

And then complains of an o'erclouded brain, 

His heated blood, and his excited feelings, 

And scolds about his nature and his destiny. 

Oft have I heard him rail at his physician 

In bitterness and folly. 'Twas ridiculous 

If aught can be which plagues our fellow-creatures. 

" I have this ail," says he, frightened and fretful ; 

" I would be cured." " Then," says the doctor, " shun 

This thing or that." " I cannot ; 'tis impossible. " 

" Then take this drink." " O, but it tastes too horribly ; 

My blood rises against it." " Well, drink nought but 

water." 
" I could not more detest water alone 
In hydrophobia." " Then I cannot help you ; 
You must grow worse and worse each day you live thus.' 1 



TORQUATO TASSO. 435 

" You are a fine physician, truly ! Are there no remedies 
Which are not worse to endure, than is 
Thy present ill ? " Your highness smiles ; 
But you have often heard all this, and more. 

Alph. Yes, I have heard and have excused it all. 

Anto. 'Tis certain, so irregular a life 

Poisons our slumbers with wild, painful dreams, 
And finally can make us dream at noonday. 
Such dreams are his ! Thinking himself surrounded 
With foes and rivals, all who see his talents 
Forsooth, must envy, hate, and persecute him. 
With what fond fancies doth he weary thee ! — 
Locks broken, intercepted letters, daggers, poison ; 
And when thou mad'st inquiry, what has been 
The invariable result ? 'Twas all his fancy ! 
The protection of no prince gives him security, 
The bosom of no friend gives him repose ! 
Can such a man add to thy happiness ? 

Alph. He does not add directly to my happiness. 
That I cannot expect from all my friends, 
But use each one according to his nature ; 
And thus each serves me well. This lesson learned I 
From the wise Medici, and from the pope, 
Who, with such gentleness and patience, bore 
The freaks and follies of those men of genius 
Who needed them so much, and knew it not. 

Anto. Yet sure, my prince, all are best taught to prize 
Life's blessings by the toil of winning them ! 
Had he been forced to struggle for all this, 
Which Fortune, open-handed, pours upon him, 
His character had gained more strength through expe- 
rience, 



436 THE DRAMA OP 

And he from step to step become more satisfied. 

Is it not luck enough for a poor gentleman 

To be the elect companion of his sovereign, 

And freed from pains and cares of penury ? 

And when he is advanced still further, raised 

O'er his sometime superiors, and loaded 

With marks of favor and of confidence, 

Should he not feel delight and gratitude ? 

And Tasso has obtained, beside all this, the noblest 

Reward of youthful effort ; since his country 

Already knows and looks on him with hope. 

Believe me, his capricious discontents 

Rest but on the broad bolster of his luck. 

He comes — dismiss him kindly — let him seek 

In Rome or Naples what he misses here, 

And what here only he can find again. 

Alph. Will he go with us to Ferrara first ? 

Anto. No ! he prefers staying at Belriguardo, 
And sending to the city for such things 
As he may need for the intended journey. 

Alph. Well, let it be so, then. My sister goes 
With us to accompany her friend, and I 
Shall ride before and be there to receive them. 
Thou follow us when thou hast cared for him. 
Make thou arrangements, and direct my warder 
That he may stay here till his stores arrive, 
And I prepare some letters I will give him 
To friends of mine in Rome. He comes. Farewell ! 



TOBQUATO TASSO. 437 



Scene II. 

Alphonso. Tasso. 

Tasso. ( With an air of reserve.) The grace which thou so 
oft hast shown to me 

To-day displays in broadest light. The trespass 

So heedlessly committed thou hast pardoned ; 

Hast reconciled me with mine adversary ; 

And now dost graciously give me permission 

To leave thy side in happy confidence 

That thou wilt not forget, nor cease to favor me. 

I go in hopes that, change of scene will cure 

The malady that now distresses me, 

And move my spirit with new life, so that, 

Returning, I may merit those kind looks 

Which cheered me when I came to thee at first. 
Alph. I wish thee luck and pleasure in thy journey, 

And trust thou wilt return quite well and happy. 

And wilt requite me richly for each hour 

Thou hast stolen from us. I shall give thee le 

To my ambassador and friends at Rome. 

I hope thou wilt treat them with confidence, 

As being mine ; for I must still regard thee 

As mine, though thou dost leave me voluntarily 
Tasso. Thy goodness overpowers me. I can scare 

Find words to thank thee. Hear a prayer in; 

To which this goodness now emboldens me. 

My poem, I have striven to perfect it ; 

And yet it falls far, far beneath the standard 

E'en of my present tastes. Now, when I vL 

art 
The Eternal City, where the very air 

37* 



438 THE DRAMA OP 

Is instinct with the spirit of past greatness, 
I am again a pupil, and may hope 
To make my poem a more worthy gift ; 
But now I shame to know it in thy keeping. 

Alph. Wilt thou reclaim thy gifts in the same day 
They were bestowed ? Besides, I do believe 
Thou art in error : let me mediate 
Between thee and thy poem : have a care 
Lest thou refine away that glow of nature 
Which animates thy verse ; no sickly hues, 
Mixed by fastidious taste, could recompense us. 
List not too much to the advice of others ; 
The many-colored thoughts of various men, 
Crossing or contradicting as in life, 
The poet casts again through his own prism, 
Not caring if he now displease the many, 
That he may please them some day as much more. 

Anto. But I will not deny that here and there 

■^hy work may need the file, and soon will send thee 
As -opy fairly writ. But this thou gav'st me 

Alph. V nno t part with till I have enjoyed it 

Wit.ompany with my sisters. If thou bring'st it 
Sha.o perfect back, we shall have new delight, 
The} we can gi ve thee, too, our friendly judgment. 
Makxcuse my asking thee to send the copy 
Thatoon as may be ; in my work my mind 
And ,v absorbed, for now it must be all 
To fr r s hall be. 

And I respect thy earnestness ; 
could wish thou wouldst, for some brief space, 
• the world in freedom ; dissipate 
thronging thoughts ; sweeten by exercise 



TORQUATO TASSO. 439 

The fevered blood. Then would thy senses 

Tuned to new harmony, do for thee all 

Which thou, by zeal, dost vainly seek to compass. 
Tasso. My prince, it seems so ; yet I am then best 

When I at will can give me to my task. 

The labor which I love can work my cure, 

For this luxurious ease befits me not. 

Repose of body brings not that of mind ; 

And I, alas ! feel that I was not destined 

On the soft gladsome element of day 

To sail unto the sea of future times. 
Alph. All that thou seest and feel'st still leads thee bacK 

To the deep, far recesses of thy soul. 

Of all the pits that fate has dug for us, 

Those in our hearts are deepest — most alluring 

Their flower-wreathed brinks. O, heed my voice ! 

Be not so closely wedded to thyself; 

The poet gains thereby, but the man loses. 
Tasso. Vainly thou speak'st ; vainly I strive ; I find 

Still day and night alternate in my bosom. 

When I muse not, nor paint poetic visions, 

Life ceases in my soul. Can the poor silkworm 

Pause in his task because he works his death, 

And from his life is formed the costly thread ? 

His life's last forces eager he bestows, 

Then rests within the shroud his substance shaped. 

O, may I only hope to share yet further 

His destiny ! In new and sun-bright realms 

To unfold my wings into a higher being. 
Alph. Tasso, who givest to so many hearts 

Redoubled joy in life, wilt thou ne'er learn 

To know that being's worth whose better part 



440 THE DRAMA OP 

Thou dost possess tenfold beyond the measure 
Allotted to thy brethren of this world ? 
Farewell ; the speedier thou makest return, 
The warmer shall thy welcome be Farewell. 



Scene III. 

Tasso, alone. 

Tasso. Yes, yet be firm, my heart. 'Tis the first time, 
And hard the practice of dissimulation. 
Antonio's mind sounds in his words and voice. 
If I give heed, I shall be sure to hear 
That echo on each side — Be firm, be firm ! 
'Tis but a moment longer ; and who late 
In life begins to feign, has the advantage 
Of his past reputation for sincerity. 
O, I shall end with masterly composure ! 
(After a pause.) Too rashly that was said. She comes 

she comes — 
The gentle princess comes. Ah, what a feeling ! 
She comes — suspicion and chagrin dissolve 
To sorrow at the painful, lovely vision. 



Scene IV. 

Princess. Tasso. 

Prin. I hear we are to leave thee ; that thou dost not 
Go with us to Ferrara on thy way. 
I trust thy absence will not be a long one. 
To Rome thou goest ? 



TOEQUATO TASSO. 441 

Tasso. I seek that city first ; 

And if my friends receive me as I hope, 
Shall there remain to give the final polish 
To my Jerusalem. There are assembled 
So many master spirits, and, besides, 
In that imperial and hallowed city 
Each stone has language, every street a story ; 
And these dumb teachers, in their solemn majesty, 
Will find an attentive pupil in your poet. 
And if I cannot there perfect my work, 
Nowhere can it be done. Alas ! I feel 
As if I ne'er could bring aught to perfection, 
Or reap success from any enterprise. 
That I may alter, but cannot perfect, 
I feel — I feel it sadly — the great art, 
Which to strong souls brings added strengthening 
And sweet refreshment, will to mine be ruin. 
But I will strive. From Rome I go to Naples. 

Prin. Why wilt thou venture ? The stern prohibition — 
Equal against thy father and thyself— 
Has never been revoked. 

Tasso. I go disguised. 

In the poor garb of shepherd or of pilgrim, 

I easily shall thread the crowded streets 

Of Naples unobserved. I seek the shore ; 

Then find a boat, manned by good, honest peasants, 

Returning from the market to Sorrentium, 

Where dwells my sister, who with me formed once 

The painful joy of our lost parents. I speak not 

While in the skiff, nor yet at disembarking ; 

1 softly climb the path, ana at the gate 

I ask, " Where dwells Cornelia ? " and a woman, 



442 THE DEAMA OF 

Spinning before her door, shows me her house. 
The children flock to look upon the stranger, 
With the dishevelled locks and gloomy looks. 
At last I reach the threshold — open stands 
The door — I enter. 

Prin. Tasso, look up ; wake up and know thy danger ! 
If thou art conscious, tell me ! Is it noble 
To think, to speak, thus selfishly, regardless 
How thou dost wound and sicken friendly hearts ? 
How has my brother favored thee ! his sisters 
Have treasured thee ; thou carest not, feel'st it not. 
One moment's passion blots out all remembrance 
Of love and favors past. Wilt thou, then, go, 
Leaving such pain and care behind ? ( Tasso turns away, 

'Tis pleasant 
To speed the parting guest with some kind token, 
Recalling hours which we have passed together, 
Were't but a piece of armor or a mantle. 
But richest gifts to thee are useless, who 
Dost wilful cast them all away, preferring 
The long black robe, the scallop shell and staff. 
Thou choosest to be poor, and yet wilt rob us 
Of what without us thou canst not enjoy. 

Tasso. Thou dost not, then, wholly repel me from thee. 

O, heavenly words ! most sweet, most dear assurance ! 
Direct, protect, receive me as thy servant. 
Leave me in Belriguardo, or transfer me 
To Consandoli, as thou wilt. The prince 
Has many stately castles and fair gardens, 
Which you but seldom honor with your presence 
Even for a day. From them choose the most distant, 
Which you, perhaps, for years may never visit ; 



TORQUATO TASSO. 443 

There send me. I will be your faithful warder ; 
There will I prune the trees, cover the citrons 
With boards and tiles in autumn, and preserve them 
'Neath matted reeds. Fair flowers shall dress the 

beds, 
No weed shall grow in avenue or alley ; 
And mine be also charge over the palace, 
To open windows at the proper times, 
To guard the pictures against damp and mould, 
To sweep the stuccoed walls with a light broom, 
To keep the marble pavement white and pure. 
No stone, no tile, shall be displaced, nor grass 
Find leave to grow in any cleft or chink. 

Prin. I know not how to act. I find no comfort 

For thee or us. 0, would but some good angel 

Show me some wholesome herb, some healing beverage, 

That would have power to pacify thy senses, 

And make us happy in thy cure : all words 

Are idle, for the truest touch thee not ; 

And I must leave thee ; but my heart stays with thee. , 

Tasso. My God ! she pities me, she does indeed ; 

And could I then mistake that noble heart, y v > 

Maintain my mean suspicions in her presence ? 
But now I know her and myself again. 
Speak on those words of tenderness and soothing ; 
Give me thy counsel ; say, what shall I do ? 

Prin. We ask but little from thee ; yet that little 

Has ever been too much : that thou wouldst trust us, 
And to thyself be true ! Couldst thou do this 
Thou wouldst be happy, and we be happy in thee. 
We must be gloomy when we see thee pj ; 
Impatient when so oft we see thee need 



444 THE DRAMA OF 

The help we cannot give ; when thou refusest 

To seize the hand stretched out to thee in love. 
Tasso. Thou art the same who came to meet me first ! 

Angel of pity and of love, forgive 

That my eye, clouded by the mists of earth, 

Mistook thee for a moment. Now I know thee, 

And open all my soul to adoration, 

My heart to tenderness beyond all words. 

Ah, what a feeling ! what a strange confusion ! 

Is't madness which draws me thus towards thee ? 

Or is't an elevated sense of truth, 

In its most lovely, earth-born form ? I know not. 

It is the feeling which alone can make me 

Most blest if I may venture to indulge it, 

Most miserable if I must repress it. 

And I have striven with this passion — striven 

With my profoundest self — have torn in pieces 

The heart which beat with such devotion for thee. 
Prin. If thou wouldst have me listen longer, Tasso, 

Avoid expressions which I must not hear. 
Tasso , And can the goblet's rim restrain the wine 

Which foams above it ? Every word of thine 

Kindles my soul with fires unfelt before ; 

With each word beam thine eyes more clear and soft ; 

My so^il dilates, each sorrow flies, I'm free, — 

Free as h god, — and this I own to thee. 

The powec that fills me now thy lips poured on me, 

And I am wholly thine. Of all my being 

No atom call I mine, apart from thee. 

Ah, I am blinded with excess of light ! 

My senses waver with excess of bliss ! 

I must approach. My heart throbs wildly towards thee ; 



TORQUATO TASSO. 445 

I am all thine — receive me to thyself ! ( Clasping her 

in his arms.) 
Prin. (Breaking from him.) Away ! (Hastens out.) 
Leon. (Who has been some time approaching.) What, what 

has happened, Tasso ? [Follows the Princess. 
Tasso (Attempting to follow.) My God ! 
Alph. (Wlw has been approaching with Antonio.) He 

raves ! Beware that he escape not. [_Goes out. 



Scene V. 

Tasso. Antonio. 

Anto. Had thy suspicions groundwork ? Wert thou ever 

Girt round by foes ? Wei'e their chief now beside thee, 

How would he triumph ! Poor unfortunate ! 

I scarcely know what 'twas I saw. A thing 

So monstrous, so entirely unexpected, 

Must make the mind stand still a while in fault 

Of something to compare this deed withal. 
Tasso. Perform thine office, for I understand it. 

(After a long pause.) Thou art well worthy of the 
prince's confidence. 

My staff is broken ; thou art free to torture me ; 

Pull in thy hook ; make thy prey feel its sharpness ; 

Thou art a precious work-tool for a tyrant, 

Whether as jailer or as torturer ; 

Each part thou playest as if born for it. 

(Towards the scenes.) Go, tyrant! now, dissimulation 
over, 

Thy slave in chains, 'tis thy fit hour for triumph. 

I know what griefs thou hast prepared for me ; 
38 



446 THE DRAMA OP 

Yet go ; thy presence rouses my abhorrence , 

Unfeeling despot, go — and be detested ! 

{After a pause.) Yes ; now I am an outcast mendicant, 

Upon the very spot where I was crowned 

A victim for the altar. They lured from me 

My poem — all my wealth — with their smooth words. 

My all is in their hands which could secure me 

Another home, or shelter me from hunger. 

Thus 'tis that they would have me rest, and thou 

Art the deviser of this fell conspiracy. 

My poem now will never be perfected ; 

My fame can never be further diffused ; 

My enemies may freely spy my faults, 

And I be first despised, and then forgotten. 

Therefore, should I accustom me to idleness, 

Beware lest I o'ertask my mind. What friendship ! 

What tender care ! I long have felt this plot 

Spinning and weaving round me ; now 'tis finished, 

And braves the light of day in all its ugliness. 

And thou, too, siren, who with honeyed words 

Enticed me to my ruin, now I know thee. 

But why so late ? Thus we deceive ourselves, 

And venerate the wicked, as they us. 

Men know each other not, except, perhaps, 

The galley slaves to one bench chained together, 

When none can gain by loss of a companion, 

And all as villains are received at once. 

But we must courtly flatter other men, 

Hoping they will return our compliments. 

How she, who was to me a shrined saint, 

Has dropped her mask ! I see her as she is : 

Coquettish, full of little arts — Armida, 



TORQUATO TASSO. 447 

Deprived of all her charms. Yes, thou art she , 

The tale I framed was a presentiment. 

And then her crafty little emissary ! 

How mean, how paltry looks she now before me ! 

This is the snare to which her soft steps guided. 

I know you all. That is some satisfaction ; 

And though these moments rob me of all else, 

I should not murmur, since they bring me truth. 
Anto. Tasso, I listen with astonishment, 

Well as I know how lightly thy rash spirit 

Flies from the one extreme back to the other. 

Bethink thyself ! Repress this frantic passion. 

Thou dost blaspheme ; thou usest such expressions 

As, though thy friends may pardon them, from feeling 

How wretched is thy state of mind, thou never, 

When calmer, wilt forgive unto thyself. 
Tasso. Tune not thy tongue to gentleness ; talk not 

Thus reasonably to a wretch who now 

Can find no comfort save in self-oblivion. 

I feel myself crushed to my inmost marrow ; 

And must I live to feel it ? Now despair 

Seizes upon me with relentless grasp, 

And 'mid the fiery tortures which consume me, 

These blasphemies are as low groans of pain. 

I must away : if thou look'st kindly on me : 

Go, show it now, and hasten my departure. 
Anto. In such distracted state I cannot leave thee ; 

I will be patient, whatsoe'er thou sayest. 
Tasso. I am thy prisoner, then. Well, be it so ; 

I will not make resistance — am content. 

Here will I sit, and memory will torture me, 

Recalling all that I have wilful lost : 



448 THE DRAMA OP 

Now they depart. O God ! I see the dust 

Raised by their chariot wheels, and I must stay. 

They leave me, and in anger. O, might I 

But kiss her hand once more, ask her forgiveness, 

Hear from her sweet mouth, " Go in peace, my friend ! '' 

O, might I bid farewell ! I must, I must ! 

I could plead with her. No ; I am an exile — 

Banished, despised. I never more shall hear 

Her heavenly voice — never more meet her eye. 
Anto. Be thou reminded by the voice of one 

Who cannot hear thy voice without emotion ; 

Thy case is not so desperate. Be a man ; 

Collect thyself, and all may yet be well. 
Tasso. And am I, then, so wretched as I seem ? 

Am I so weak as I appear to thee ? 

Is all, then, lost ? Could this one shock suffice 

To crumble my life's tenement to dust ? 

Remains no talent, now, which might support 

Or pleasure me ? Are all their fires extinguished 

Which warmed my breast but now ? Have I a n*»Uri«i(j, 

Absolute nullity, so soon become ? 

Yes, it is really so ; I am now nothing ! 

She has forsaken me, and I myself. 
Anto. Perhaps to find thyself again, a better, 

Wiser, and happier man. 
Tasso. Thou sayest well. 

Have I forgot so many instances 

Which history offers us of noble men, 

Whose sorrows and whose fortitude might rouse 

My soul to emulation ? No ; 'tis vain. 

There's a last refuge, nature's providence 

Supplies to miserable men like me — 



TORQUATO TASSO. 449 

Tears, sobs of pain, when the o'erladen heart 

Can bear no more. I have, besides, the gift 

To make my sighs and groans melodious, 

To express my anguish in the deepest, saddest, 

Most piercing notes. How many grieve in silence ! 

The gods have gifted me to tell my sufferings. 

(Antonio goes to him, and takes his hand.) 
O, noble man ! Thou standest firm and still ; 
I am indeed but as the storm-tossed wave ; 
Yet do not thou condemn a soul less steadfast, 
Since he who piled the rocks on their foundations, 
Ne'er to be moved save by his awful voice, 
Gave to the wave its as eternal motion ; 
He sends his storms, the obedient billows waver, 
Rise, fall, clash, or combine, as the winds will. 
Yet these same waves, in fairer moments, mirrored 
The glorious sun. The pure, cold stars have smiled 
At their existence doubled on the surface 
Of the proud element, which rose to meet them. 
Now vanished is my sun, and gone my peace. 
I know myself no longer in this turmoil ; 
No longer shame I to avow my weakness. 
The rudder breaks ; the trembling skiff gives way, 
And rocks beneath my feet. With both my arms 
I clasp thee. Stir not. Here is all my hope. 
The mariner thus clings to that rude rock 
Which wrecked his friends, his fortune and his home, 



Messrs. Roberts Brothers' Publications. 

famous UDomen g>ztiz$. 

MRS. SIDDONS. 

By NINA H. KENNARD. 

One Volume. i6mo. Cloth. Price, $1.00. 



The latest contribution to the " Famous Women Series " gives the life of Mrs. 
Siddons, carefully and appreciatively compiled by Nina H. Kennard. Previous 
lives of Mrs. Siddons have failed to present the many-sided character of the great 
tragic queen, representing her more exclusively in her dramatic capacity. Mrs. 
Kennard presents the main facts in the lives previously written by Campbell and 
Boaden, as well as the portion of the great actress's history appearing in Percy 
Fitzgerald's " Lives of the Kembles; " and beyond any other biographer gives the 
more tender and domestic side of her nature, particularly as shown in her hitherto 
unpublished letters. The story of the early dramatic endeavors of the little Sarah 
Kemble proves not the least interesting part of the narrative, and it is with a dis- 
tinct human interest that her varying progress is followed until she gains the sum- 
mit of popular favor and success. The picture of her greatest public triumphs 
receives tender and artistic touches in the view we are given of the idol of brilliant 
and intellectual London sitting down with her husband and father to a frugal 
home supper on retiring from the glare of the footlights. — Commonwealth. 

We think the author shows good judgment in devoting comparatively l.ttle 
space to criticism of Mrs. Siddons's dramatic methods, and giving special at- 
tention to her personal traits and history. Hers was an extremely interesting 
life, remarkable no less for its private virtues than for its public triumphs. Her 
struggle to gain the place her genius deserved was heroic in its persistence and 
dignity Her relations with the authors, wits, and notables of her day give 
occasion for much entertaining and interesting anecdotical literature. Herself free 
from humor, she was herself often the occasion of fun in others The stories of 
her tragic manner in private life are many and ludicrous. . . . The book abounds 
in anecdotes, bits of criticism, and pictures of the stage and of society in a very 
interesting transitional period. — Christian Union. 

A fitting addition to this so well and so favorably known series is the life of the 
wonderful actress, Sarah Siddons, by Mrs. Nina Kennard. To most of the pres- 
ent generation the great woman is only a name, though she lived until 1831 ; but 
the present volume, with its vivid account of her life, its struggles, triumphs, and 
closing years, will give to such a picture that is most lifelike. A particularly 
pleasant feature of the book is the way in which the author quotes so copiously 
from Mrs. Siddons's correspondence. These extracts from letters written to 
friends, and with no thought of their ever appearing in print, give the most 
spontaneous expressions of feeling on the part of the writer, as well as her own 
account of many events of her life. They furnish, therefore, better data upon 
which to base an opinion of her real personality and character than anything 
else could possibly give. The volume is interesting from beginning to end, 
and one rises from its perusal with the warmest admiration for Sarah Siddons 
because of her great genius, her real goodness, and her true womanliness, shown 
in the relations of daughter, wife, and mother. Modern actresses, amateur or 
professional, with avowed intentions of "elevating the stage,'' should study 
this noble woman's example ; for in this direction she accomplished more, prob- 
ably, than any other one person has ever done, and at greater odds. — N. E. 
Journal of Education. 

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price, by the publishers, 

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Messrs. Roberts Brothers' Publications. 

famous fEomen &tx\t$. 

MARGARET OF ANGOULEME, 

QUEEN OF NAVARRE. 

By A. MARY F. ROBINSON. 

One Volume. 16mo. Cloth. Price, $1.00. 



The latest addition to the excellent " Famous Women Series " is a sketch of ihe 
Queen of Navarre, one of the most deservedly famous women of the sixteenth cen- 
tury. In political influence she is fitly compared to Queen Elizabeth of England 
and Margaret of Austria; and as to her services to religion, she has been relerred 
to as " the divinity of the great religious movement of her time, and the upholder of 
the mere natural rights of humanity in an age that only respected opinions." The 
story of this remarkable woman is here told briefly, and with a discrimination that 
does credit to the biographer. — Times-Star, Cincinnati. 

Margaret of Angouleme furnishes a noble subject, which has been ably treated. 
Miss Robinson's sketch proves thorough research and a clear conception of her 
work, possessing a perfect knowledge of the characters and events connected with 
that peiiod. She is in sympathy with every movement, and explicit in detail, being 
strictly confined to lacts which may be authentically received. . . . This excel'ent 
biography is a source of enjoyment from the first page to the last, and shouid be 
read by every student and lover of history. It abounds in instructive and enjoy- 
able reading, furnishing a valuable addition to this popular series. — Utica Press. 

One of the most readable volumes thus far in the " Famous Women Series " 
has just been published by Roberts Brothers. It is Mary F. Robinson's "Life 
of Margaret of Angouleme, Queen of Navarre." Judging from the fifty different 
authorities that the writer has consulted, it is evident that she has taken great 
pains to sympathize with the spirit of the era which she describes. Only a warm 
imagination, stimulated by an intimate knowledge of details, will he : p an author 
to make his reader realize that the past was as present to those who lived in it as 
the present is to us. Miss Robinson has compiled a popular history, that has the 
easy flow and lifelike picture«queness which it is so often the aim of the novelist to 
display. Such books as this, carefully and even artistically written as they are, 
help to fill up vacant nooks in the minds of those who have read large histories in 
which personal biography can hold but a small place; while at the same time they 
give the non-historical reader a good deal of information which is, or ought to 
be, more interesting than many a fiction. Nor does Miss Robinson estimate the 
influence of Margaret of Angouleme wrODgly when she traces the salvation of a 
nation to her mercy and magnanimity. — A^. Y. Telegram. 

It is reasonable and impartial in its views, and yet clear in its judgments. The 
immense importance of Queen Margaret's influence on the beginnings of modern 
thoughts in France is clearly set forth, but without exaggeration or undue empha- 
sis. Miss Robinson is especially happy in her portrayal of Margaret's complex 
vharaeter, which under her hand becomes both human and consistent ; and the 
volume, although small, is a valuable addition to the history of France in the six- 
teenth century. — Boston Courier. 



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Price, by the publishers, 

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Messrs. Roberts Brothers' Publications. 

famous t®omen &zx\z$. 

SUSANNA WESLEY. 

By ELIZA CLARKE. 

ONE VOLUME. l6mo. CLOTH. PRICE, $1.00. 



The " Famous Women Series," published at a dollar the volume by Roberts 
Brothers, now comprises George Eliot, Emily Bronte, George Sand, Mary Lamb, 
Margaret Fuller, Maria Edgeworth, Elizabeth Fry, the Countess of Albany, Mary 
Wollstonecraft, Harriet Martineau, Rachel, Madame Roland, and Susanna Wes- 
ley. The next volume will be Madame de Stael. The world has not gone into 
any ecstasies over these volumes. They are not discussed in the theatre or hotel- 
lobbies, and even fashionable society knows very little about them. Yet there is 
a goodly company of quiet people that delight in this series. And well they mav ', 
for there are few biographical series more attractive, more modest, and more profit- 
able than these " Famous Women." If one wanted to send a birthday or Christ- 
mas gift to a woman one honors, — whether she is twenty or sixty years old need 
not matter, — it would not be easy to select a better set than these volumes. To 
be sure, Americans do not figure prominently in the series, a certain preference 
being given to Englishwomen and Frenchwomen; but that does not diminish the 
intrinsic merit of each volume. One likes to add, also, that nearly the whole set 
has been written from a purely historical or matter-of-fact point of view, there being 
very little in the way of special pleading; or one-sidedness. This applies especially 
to the mother of the Wesleys. Mankind has treated the whole Wesley family as 
if it was the special, not to say exclusive, property of the Methodists. But there 
is no fee-simple in good men or women, and all mankind may well lay a certain 
claim to all those who have in any way excelled or rendered important service to 
mankind at large. Eliza Clarke's life of Susanna Wesley tells us truly that she 
was "a lady of ancient lineage, a woman of intellect, a keen politician," and 
profoundly religious, as well as a shrewd observer of men, things, and society at 
large. . . . Her life is that of a gifted, high-minded, and prudent woman. It is 
told in a straightforward manner, and it should be read far beyond the lines of the 
Methodist denomination. There must have been many women in Colonial New 
England who resembled Susanna Wesley ; for she was a typical character, both 
in worldly matters and in her spiritual life. — The Beacon. 

Mrs. Wesley was the mother of nineteen children, among whom were John, 
the founder, and Charles, the sweet singer, of Methodism. Her husband was a 
poor country rector, who eked out by writing verses the slender stipend his cleri- 
cal office brought him. Mrs. Wesley was a woman of gentle birth, intense reli- 
gious convictions, strong character, and singular devotion to her children. This 
biography is well written, and'is eminently readable, as well as historically valuable. 
— Cambridge Tribune. 

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the price, by the publishers, 

ROBERTS BROTHERS, Boston. 



Messrs. Roberts Brothers'" Publications. 



jFamous EHomm Series. 



RACHEL. 

By Mrs. NINA H. KENNABD. 
One Volume. 16mo. Cloth. Price, $1.00. 



* Rachel, by Nina H. Kennard, is an interesting sketch of the famous 
woman whose passion and genius won for her an almost unrivalled fame as 
an actress. The story of Rachel's career is of the most brilliant success in 
art and of the most pathetic failure in character. Her faults, many and 
grievous, are overlooked in this volume, and the better aspects of her nature 
and history are recorded." — Hartford Courant. 

" The book is well planned, has been carefully constructed, and is 
pleasantly written." — The Critic. 

" The life of MHe. F^lisa Rachel Felix has never been adequately told, 
and the appearance of her biography in the ' Famous Women Series ' of 
Messrs. Roberts Brothers will be welcomed. . . . Yet we must be glad the 
book is written, and welcome it to a place among the minor biographies ; 
and because there is nothing else so good, the volume is indispensable to 
library and study." — Boston Evening Traveller, 

"Another life of the great actress Rachel has been written. It forms 
part of the ' Famous Women Series,' which that firm is now bringing out, 
and which already includes eleven volumes. Mrs. Kennard deals with her 
subject much more amiably than one or two of the other biographers have 
done. She has none of those vindictive feelings which are so obvious in 
Madame B.'s narrative of the great tragedienne. On the contrary, she 
wants to be fair, and she probably is as fair as the materials which came into 
her possession enabled her to be. The endeavor has been made to show us 
Rachel as she really was, by relying to a great extent upon her letters. . . . 
A good many stories that we are familiar with are repeated, and some are 
contradicted. From first to last, however, the sympathy of the author is 
ardent, whether she recounts the misery of Rachel's childhood, or the splen- 
did altitude to which she climbed when her name echoed through the world 
and the great ones of the earth vied in doing her homage. On this account 
Mrs. Kennard's book is a welcome addition to the pre-existing biographies 
of one of the greatest actresses the world ever saw." — N.Y. Evening 
Telegram. 

• 

Sold everywhere. Mailed postpaid, by the Publishers, 

ROBERTS BROTHERS, Boston. 



Messrs. Roberts Brothers Publications. 

famous IBomen g>ttiz$. 

MADAME DE STAEL. 

By BELLA DUFFY. 
One Volume. i6mo. Cloth. Price, $1.00. 



It is a brilliant subject, and handled in a brilliant as well as an intelligent 
manner. — The Independent. 

The biography of this remarkable woman is written in a spirit of candor and 
fairness that will at once commend it to the attention of those who are seeking 
the truth. The author is not so much in love with her subject as to lose sight of 
her faults; nor is she so blind to Madame de Stael' s merits as to place confi- 
dence in the many cruel things that have been said of her by her enemies. 
The review of Madame de Stael's works, which closes this volume, exhibits 
rare critical insight; and the abstract of " Coriune " here given will be wel- 
comed by those who have never had the patience to wade through this long 
but celebrated classic, which combines somewhat incongruously the qualities of a 
novel and an Italian guide-book. In answering the question, Why was not Ma- 
dime de Stael a greater writer? her biographer admirably condenses a great deal 
of analytical comment into a very brief space. Madame de Stael was undoubtedly 
the most celebrated woman of her time, and this fact is never lost sight of in this 
carefully written record of her life. — Saturday Evening Gazette. 

It treats of one of the most fascinating and remarkable women of history. The 
name of Madame de Stael is invested with every charm that brilliance of intellect, 
romance, and magnetic power to fascinate and compel the admiration ot men can 
bestow. Not beautiful herself, she wielded a power which the most beautiful 
women envied her and could not rival. The story of her life should read like a 
novel, and is one of the best in this series of interesting books published by 
Roberts Brothers, Boston. — Chicago Journal. 

We have Messrs. Roberts Brothers to thank for issuing a series of biographies 
upon which entire dependence may be placed, the volumes in the " Famous Wom- 
en Series" being thus far invariably trustworthy and enjoyable. Certainly the 
life of Madame de Stael, which Miss Bella Duffy has just written for it, is as good 
as the best of its predecessors ; of each of which, according to our reasoning, the 
same thing might appropriately be said. Miss Duffy has little to tell of her sub- 
ject that has not already been told in longer biographies, it is true ; but from a 
great variety of sources she has extracted enough material to make an excellent 
study of the great Frenchwoman in a small space, which has never been done 
before successfully, so far as we know. Considering the size of the book, one 
marvels at the completeness of the picture the author presents, not only of Ma- 
dame de Stael herself, but of her friends, and of the stirring times in which she 
lived and which so deeply colored her whole life. Miss Duffy, though disposed 
to look at her faults rather leniently, is by no means forgetful of them ; she simply 
does her all the justice that the facts in the case warrant, which is perhaps more 
than readers of the longer biographies before referred to expect. At the end of 
the volume is a chapter devoted to the writings of Madame de Stael, which is so 
admirable a bit of literary criticism that we advise the purchase of the book if only 
for its sake. — The Capital, Washington. 



Sold by all booksellers. Mailed, post-paid, on receipt of 
price, by the publishers, 

ROBERTS BROTHERS, Boston. 



\,'\, w-*» 



Messrs. Roberts Brothers' Publications. 



jFamous SHomm Series* 



MADAME ROLAND. 

By MATHILDE BLIND, 

AUTHOR OF "GEORGE ELIOT'S LIFE." 
One volume. i6mo. Cloth. Price, $1.00. 



"Of all the interesting biographies published in the Famous Women Sertes, 
Mathilde Blind's life of Mme. Roland is by far the most fascinating. . . . But 
no one can read Mme Roland's thrilling story, and no one can study the character 
of this noble, heroic woman without feeling certain that it is good for the world to 
have every incident of her life brought again before the public eye. Among the 
famous women who have been enjoying a new birth through this set of short 
biographies, no single one has been worthy of the adjective great until we come 
to Mme. Roland. . . . 

"We see a brilliant intellectual women in Mme. Roland; we see a dutiful 
daughter and devoted wife ; we see a woman going forth bravely to place her neck 
under the guillotine, — a woman who had been known as the ' Soul of the Giron- 
dins ; ' and we see a woman struggling with and not being overcome by an intense 
and passionate love. Has history a more heroic picture to present us with? Is 
there any woman more deserving of the adjective 'great' ? 

" Mathilde Blind has had rich materials from which to draw for Mine. Roland's 
biography. She writes graphically, and describes some of the terrible scenes 
in the French Revolution with great picturesqueness. The writer's sympathy 
with Mme. Roland and her enthusiasm is very contagious; and we follow her 
record almost breathlessly, and with intense feeling turn over the last few pages 
of this little volume. No one can doubt that this life was worth the writing, 
and even earnest students of the French Revolution will be glad to refresh their 
memories of Lamartine's ' History of the Girondins,' and again have brought 
vividly before them the terrible tragedy of Mme. Roland's life and death." — 
Boston Evening Transcript. 

"' The thrilling story of Madame Roland's genius, nobility, self-sacrifice, and 
death loses nothing in its retelling here. The material has been collected and 
arranged in an unbroken and skilfully narrated sketch, each picturesque or exciting 
incident being brought out into a strong light. The book is one of the best in an 
excellent series." — Christian Union. 



For sale by all booksellers. Mailed, post-paid, on receipt 
of price by the publishers, 

ROBERTS BROTHERS, Boston. 












































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